Affair to Remember
by Gertrude2034
Summary: House has to go visit his mother after an interfering neighbor calls his office to complain about Blythe’s deteriorating health. House has to come to terms with being an adult and a son. House/OC romance but very House-centric. Sex scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **House has to go visit his mother after an interfering neighbor calls his office to complain about Blythe's deteriorating health. During his visit House has to come to terms with being an adult and learns more about the connection between mothers and sons. House/OC romance but very House-centric. Sex scenes.

**A/N:** A very long one-shot or a short saga, whichever way you want to look at it! Ten chapters in total. Written in response to the Fox Forum Friday Night OC Challenge, prompt: An Affair to Remember.

-

* * *

**Affair to Remember**

**© Gertrude2034**

"Hello? Is that Greg House?"

"Who wants to know?"

"This is Emma Porter, I'm your mother's neighbor. She—"

"I don't have time for this."

Emma pulled the phone away from her ear in astonishment as the disconnected tone beeped at her. "He hung up on me," she muttered. "I don't believe it."

"Never mind dear. Everything will be fine."

Emma's neighbor reached over and patted her hand consolingly. Emma shook her head and smiled, because what else could she do? "I'm sure you're right Blythe," she said giving her hand a squeeze.

The older woman frowned and leaned in. "When we're around the other wives, it's probably better if you call me Mrs House. You understand, my husband _is_ a colonel."

Emma smiled again. "Sure, Mrs House," she agreed, despite knowing that tomorrow – or maybe even five minutes from now – her neighbor would wonder why Emma was calling her Mrs House and insist on being called Blythe. She wondered who Blythe even thought she was – some kind of servant, perhaps? Today was a bad day.

"Shall I make us a coffee?" Blythe asked with a bright smile. "Then we can talk about the auxiliary."

"Sure, you go ahead." Emma had no idea what talking about the auxiliary meant, but so far Blythe still seemed capable in the kitchen, and giving her a job to do gave Emma time to think. She stared at her cell phone, at the name and number she'd programmed in one day at Blythe's request – a day not long after Emma had moved in, when storms had cut electricity to both their homes and they'd sought refuge in neighborly good will. When the lights had come back on, the elderly woman had pressed a piece of paper with a phone number on it, confessing it belonged to her son, Greg. And that someone should have it, "in case of emergencies."

Now, six months later, Emma was here in her neighbor's kitchen while back at home her list of things to do grew exponentially with every minute she sat there. And Blythe's son, the one who _should_ have been doing this, had just hung up on her. A pulse of anger fizzed through her and she grabbed the phone and redialed. No way was she letting him hang up on her again.

"Dr House's office," a woman's voice answered after the phone rang several times.

"Hello, can I speak to Greg House?"

"I'm afraid he's busy right now. This is Dr Hadley, I work with Dr House, can I help?"

Emma gritted her teeth. "This is a personal matter, but I guess since he won't speak to me, perhaps you can help. My name is Emma Porter, I live next door to his mother, in Norfolk. She's . . . ah . . ." How to describe what was happening? Emma wasn't even sure herself. One day Blythe was switched on, as energetic and whip-smart as a seventy-something-year-old woman could be. The next day she didn't seem to know what year it was. "She gets . . . _confused_. I think he needs to come and visit because—"

"Who are you talking to, dear?" Blythe asked.

"It's Dr Hadley," Emma answered quickly. "She works with—"

"Oh, a doctor? My son wants to be a doctor when he grows up!" Blythe interrupted, her eyes lit up with excitement. "His father worries about the fact that he likes to play with dolls, but I think he's just practicing. He makes little hospitals and works out what's wrong with them and then bandages them up. It's very sweet to watch a little boy be so _nurturing_. You have two sugars, don't you dear? Just like my John." Blythe hummed to herself as she went back to making coffee.

"Um, Ms Porter?" Emma's attention was drawn back to the woman on the phone. Her voice was a strange mix of somberness and amusement. "I couldn't help hearing that, and I think I get the picture. I'll talk to him about it."

Emma sighed. Blythe had just illustrated what was happening far better than any explanation Emma could muster. "Thank you Dr Hadley." Emma dropped her voice. "I'm getting worried. I look out for her when I can, but I can't be there all the time. And I try to get my . . ." Emma stopped herself. No point going in to her entire life story with a stranger. "He needs to think about . . . what she needs."

"I understand. Does he have your phone number?"

"I don't think so." Blythe might have passed on Emma's number to Greg in the way she'd passed his to Emma, but for some reason she didn't think that mother and son were particularly close. Blythe spoke often, and glowingly, about her only child, but there was precious little evidence of his presence in her life.

"Okay, well, give it to me, I'll pass it on and see if I can get him to call you. It probably won't be today," Dr Hadley warned.

"That's fine. But the sooner the better," Emma added as she watched Blythe put the instant coffee jar into the microwave and close the door. Emma was ready to leap up and rescue it if Blythe had switched it on, but she didn't, she just kept going on to the refrigerator to at least put the milk back in the right place.

Today was a _very_ bad day.

Emma gave her number to Greg House's colleague and hung up. For a moment she stared at the phone and wondered, not for the first time, what the strange dynamic might be between mother and son. As far as Emma was concerned, Blythe was entirely lovely and, before she'd begun to fail, she'd been a godsend to Emma and Cammie when they'd first moved in. Watching this effervescent woman lose her mind was a tragedy. "Here you are, Emma."

Blythe put two cups of coffee on the table and then took a seat opposite.

"Thanks, Mrs House," Emma said.

"Oh, call me Blythe, dear. Now tell me, why do you look so sad?"

-

* * *

-

Three days later, House found himself in a hire car he'd picked up at the airport, on his way to his mother's house. The first time he'd been there since . . . Nope, the first time he'd _ever_ been to the place where she and his father had finally settled – where she now lived on her own. He hadn't been drugged, blackmailed or tricked into coming, although there had been a serious amount of cajoling, pleading and rationalizing from the usual suspects.

Perhaps Wilson was right. Perhaps House was getting – _ugh_ – nicer.

Strangely it had been Thirteen's argument that had been most convincing – probably something to do with her own screwed-up mommy issues. She'd even left the embarrassing childhood story his mother had apparently spilled until they were alone. That had been interesting – House would not have returned the favor.

Nah, he wasn't getting nicer.

House blamed it all on this interfering neighbor. If she'd never called, Thirteen wouldn't have got all worried, wouldn't have roped Wilson and Cuddy in to support her cause, and right now House would be enjoying his Friday afternoon – most likely working out how to skive off clinic duty and go home early.

Besides, House was sure this interfering next-door-busybody had over-reacted. It wasn't like he _never_ talked to his mother and, when he did, she always seemed perfectly fine to him. They spoke once every few weeks – she was the one who always initiated the call, but he always took it. Mostly. When he didn't have a patient or wasn't busy. When he wasn't depressed. When he wasn't drunk. When he wasn't institutionalized. His mother still didn't know about that.

He remembered his mother talking about the new neighbor, Mrs Porter, moving in about six months ago. From then on she was mentioned in just about every call – Mrs Porter that, Mrs Porter this. They played mahjong together. They went for drives into the countryside on the weekend. Mrs Porter took her to the doctor when she needed a new prescription for her arthritis meds. In return, his mother helped out with looking after Mrs Porter' dog – or maybe it was a cat? By the time the conversation got around to that, House was inevitably not listening properly anymore.

He pulled up in front of his mother's place. He didn't need to check the address – it was clearly the right house. Neatly trimmed lawn, roses lining the front picket fence, the number twenty-four shone from a brightly clean brass plate on the letterbox.

His father might be dead, but his influence lingered on.

From out of nowhere, House felt a clench of apprehension in his stomach.

Why had he come back?

Did he owe this woman, his mother, anything?

She hadn't hurt him, not in the way that his father had, but she'd let it happen. She'd been there.

She'd also patched him up when he'd fallen off his bike. Hugged him in the middle of the night after bad dreams had woken him. Given him special treats when his father wasn't looking. Helped him with his homework. Listened to his childhood tales of heartbreak. House had got out of there and not looked back as soon as he possibly could, but that decision was definitely more about his father than his mother. She'd just been left behind too, because she was with _him_.

He turned off the ignition and sat in the car for a while, swallowing hard to try to bring his emotions under control. If he'd still been in New Jersey and felt like this, he'd have run straight to Doctor Nolan. That thought didn't necessarily make him feel any better.

He was fifty years old for chrissakes. He could face his mother. He could fix up what needed to be fixed up. He could move on.

"Greg!"

House looked up and saw his mother step down from the front porch, waving with a big smile on her face. She must have been watching out the window and seen his car pull up. He'd called to let her know he was coming, but maybe he shouldn't have. Then at least he might have had the option of changing his mind and driving away.

It was too late for that.

He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, grabbed his cane, opened the car door and walked over to where his mother stood in the driveway.

"Hi, Mom."

-

* * *

-

In the kitchen, House looked around with wide eyes. Whenever his eyes lit on a plate or a knick knack that he remembered, he was hit with a weird combination of melancholy mixed with déjà vu. It was real, and yet, it wasn't.

"I'm so glad you could come for a visit. I've got the spare room all made up for you." His mother chattered non-stop as she bustled around organizing food. She was a little thinner than he remembered from the funeral, the last time they'd been face-to-face, but it wasn't a drastic change.

"Sit down, sit down," she insisted, and House took a seat at the kitchen table. Everything was orderly, but somehow the place had a faint sense of neglect. House couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Still, his mother was seventy-three and it wasn't unexpected that her housekeeping wasn't up to the same standard that it used to be.

Otherwise, everything seemed fine, and House felt his anger growing about wasting his time on this trip. "You look well, Mom," he said, keeping his voice neutral. It wasn't his mother's fault, he managed to rationalize. He'd save his anger for this Mrs Porter. Maybe _she_ was the one going senile and was just deflecting her symptoms onto other people.

His mother gave him a broad smile. "I'm fine," she said. "Here you go, you must be hungry after your trip."

She put down a plate with a lump of unidentifiable casserole and some salad along with a glass of lemonade. House felt like a kid, but he _was_ hungry. "Thanks Mom." He took a forkful of casserole. It was nice, but it was cold. Did you eat casserole cold? Maybe she didn't want to turn on the oven just for one serving. He left it and ate the salad instead.

His mother sat down at the table opposite him. "And how are you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes shrewdly.

The cold casserole he'd swallowed turned into a ball of soggy dough in his stomach. His mother could always tell if he was lying.

"I'm . . . doing better," he said eventually, figuring it was the truth.

She gave him a sad smile. "I'm glad. I'm just sorry that . . ." she trailed off.

House couldn't stop himself asking. "Sorry about what?"

"Sorry that it didn't happen sooner."

He managed a short bark of laughter. "Me too." House picked up the glass of lemonade. It was sticky and, when he held it up to the light, it was obvious that the glass hadn't been properly cleaned.

Blythe noticed and jumped up. "Whoops!" She took the glass from him. "It's my fingers – the . . . the . . ." She broke off and fumbled for the right word. "Oh, you know."

"Arthritis?" House guessed. He looked at his mother's hands. They'd changed: the knuckles on her thumbs and forefingers were swollen and her right forefinger was beginning to curve away from her other fingers. They _looked_ painful.

"_Arthritis_, yes. Sometimes it's hard to do the dishes properly. That one slipped through."

"Don't worry about it, Mom." That was all it was. Her hands didn't move the way they used to and of course that make the housework difficult. Maybe House could organize for a housekeeper to come in and help with things. He'd check what kind of meds she was on for her arthritis, maybe talk to her doctor if he thought changes were required. That was all that was needed. Problem solved. Could he go home now?

"I thought you might like a little rest and then we might go out for dinner?" His mother babbled on excitedly as she poured him a fresh glass of lemonade. "We could go down to the club – some of your father's friends would like to say hello. And then tomorrow I thought we might take a little trip and go see . . ." She paused and an expression of frustration crossed her face. ". . . _that_ place. I can't remember the name, but I'll think of it later. I don't drive much these days, because of my hands, so it would be lovely to go out and about. I'll just have to check with next door and make sure I don't need to look after Cammie tomorrow afternoon, but even if I do, maybe he could come with us? I'm sure it will be fine."

Dinners and day trips and dog-sitting? With his Mom?

Sounded like the seventh circle of hell.

But House would grit his teeth and bear it. He was leaving Monday morning. Surely he could give the woman who'd raised him a weekend of his time.

He had to.

It felt like a punishment. It felt like a debt. It felt like a duty. It felt like the right thing to do.

-

* * *

-

House put his backpack and overnight bag on the floor of the spare room. It was tiny and held a single twin bed – House grimaced looking at it. He hadn't slept in a twin bed for decadesand, with his leg, it was going to be very uncomfortable. He pulled down the quilted bedspread to find the bed had been made up with two blankets, but no sheets. She'd obviously forgotten. He'd fix it later.

Shrugging, House threw the bedspread back and then flopped on top of it, staring up at the ceiling. For a moment he was grateful that his parents had moved so much. He hated to think what it might feel like to be fifty years old and back in his teenage bedroom, staring up at the same ceiling, perhaps even the same rock band posters, ripped and fading, decorating the walls. No, this was a completely anonymous, completely unfamiliar room. And that was a good thing.

His eyes lit on a macramé owl hanging on one wall and he flashed back to watching his mother make it. That had been in . . . _Japan_, maybe?

Not _completely_ anonymous then.

He lay there for a while, trying not to think about anything, but he wasn't tired enough to sleep and his leg hurt from the flight. With a sigh, he got up again and headed back into the living room. Through the window he could see his mother out in the front garden, kneeling down in one of the garden beds, a blue cap on her head. He watched her weed for a while, her body moving stiffly and awkwardly. He realized someone must come and take care of the garden, because clearly she wasn't responsible for the neatly trimmed lawns and cleanly swept pavement. He sighed before turning away and pacing up and down the room.

House tried to avoid looking at the framed photos on the walls, the falsely happy memories captured for eternity, but he couldn't help it. There were many of his father, stern-faced, dress-uniform crisp and perfect. There were a number of his mother and father together, his mother always smiling, standing in front of some icon or famous building from the travel they'd done after his father had retired. There were a few older ones that showed the three of them: his father looking harassed and angry, his mother smiling determinedly, a teenage House scowling. One of House at his graduation looking hungover – which he certainly had been.

Happy family indeed.

A dresser held his mother's collection of antique china cups and saucers. He bent down to look at the dusty, floral-patterned porcelain. It was amazing that they'd survived the moves, but then the collection had definitely grown since they'd settled here. In the middle of the top shelf sat a Pyrex measuring jug. House had no idea what the collectable value of that might be.

"Hey," a voice called, and House straightened up as he heard the back door open and close. "Blythe?"

House stepped into the kitchen, and stopped short at the sight in front of him. The boy – House was pretty sure he had that right, although those _had_ to be girls' jeans, he'd never seen such skinny-leg pants on a guy – was a vision in black: black jeans, black _My Chemical Romance _t-shirt, black ten-hole Docs. Died black hair, greasy and floppy, obscured half his face. The part that _was_ visible was spotted red with angry acne.

He looked startled when House appeared. "Who are you?" At the "you", the kid's voice went squeaking upwards and House cringed inwardly, feeling a brief flash of sympathy for the hormone-riddled teen.

"No, who are _you_?" House couldn't help making his own voice as deep and sonorous as it could get. It was petty, but then so was puberty.

The kid seemed flustered by House's authoritative tone. "Mom asked me to bring these over for Blythe."

House belatedly noticed the kid was holding a couple of grocery bags. He relaxed and leaned against the door jam, but didn't take his eyes off the intruder. "Right."

The kid seemed to remember that he was supposed to be a scary emo/goth/whatever they were calling themselves these days, and he straightened his shoulders and shook his head in an effeminate way so his floppy bangs flicked back to reveal both eyes. "Are you her son? She said you were visiting. You look too old to be her son."

House narrowed his eyes.

"I guess everyone has a mom. Even old people." He gave House something that was halfway between a sneer and a grin. It was trying hard to be a coolly dismissive emo expression of distaste, but it was hamstrung by a sunny disposition that was trying desperately to peek through. Determined to stay stony-faced, annoyed at being called "old", House never-the-less found himself feeling a pang of sympathy for the teen. The poor kid was precisely halfway between childhood and adulthood and seesawing between the two. House did not envy him one little bit, despite the two functioning legs, full head of hair and no doubt constant erections the boy enjoyed.

"Bite me," House muttered, stepping into the kitchen. He gestured at the grocery bags. "What's in them?"

"Some food and stuff," the kid said, plopping them on the kitchen table without ceremony. "Okay, well, see ya." Without waiting for any further comment from House, the black streak beat a hasty retreat, the screen door banging shut behind him.

House let out a breath. He stepped to the door just in time to see the black t-shirt disappear through a gap in the fence. The kid was obviously familiar enough with House's mother to walk in without knocking, but House had never heard his mother mention a kid. He shrugged and turned to the grocery bags. Unpacking them, House found they contained an assortment of essentials – soap, butter, eggs, dishwashing detergent, toilet paper. That last one reminded him of something he wanted to do, so he grabbed the pack of rolls and headed for the bathroom.

House wondered if his mother seriously wanted him to go with her to his father's old club for dinner. Surely he'd be able to convince her that ordering a pizza and watching TV was a better way to spend the evening. Then he could pretend he was back in the loft with Wilson, although he'd have to keep the subject matter cleaner and lighter than he was used to. Yeah. That might be okay. Perhaps this weekend wouldn't be as big a problem as he thought it was.


	2. Chapter 2

Friday night passed uneventfully and House woke on Saturday morning to the smell of bacon. He'd convinced his mother he was too tired to go out for dinner, so he'd paid for pizza to be delivered. He could tell she wasn't enjoying the meal, but she dismissed his concerns and put on that false smile she'd perfected, the one that never failed to make House feel weighed down with guilt. But last night he was too relieved not to be facing his father's military friends, and his relief outweighed his guilt. Besides, she'd ended up going to bed at eight-thirty, so House had just watched TV until he was tired enough to sleep. And then he'd had to find sheets and make up the bed.

"Morning Mom," he said, limping his way into a chair at the kitchen table.

"Good morning, Greg." She gave him a big smile and walked over to the table to kiss him on the top of his head.

"Aww, Mom," he whined, twisting his seat. Suddenly he was thirteen again, about the same age as that kid that had appeared the day before, and his mother's affection was embarrassing.

"What, can't a mother give her son a good morning kiss?"

"Not when her son's fifty years old," House muttered.

"Well, would the fifty-year-old son like to make his own breakfast this morning, then?"

House didn't answer.

"I thought so."

Yep. Just like being thirteen again. Was that how this whole weekend was going to go? House had a bad feeling it was.

"Here you go. Over easy, just the way you like them."

"Thanks Mom." House reached for the ketchup and then noticed his mother had put mayo out as well. House suddenly remembered how much he'd liked to spread his hash browns with mayo, as a kid. He hadn't done it for years. Decades. He reached for the jar and spread a thick coating of mayo over the fried potato and then put a forkful in his mouth. _Heaven_. He was _so_ making sure Wilson served him mayo with hash browns from now on.

"This is great, Mom," he said around the creamy potatoes. The rest of the meal was ordinary, the eggs were solid and had a reheated, rubbery texture to them, but the hashbrowns were fantastic.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

House's mouth snapped shut. He ate his breakfast silently, focused on the food, watching out of the corner of his eye as his mother moved around the kitchen, cleaning, wiping, pouring fresh coffee. She'd obviously been up for a while – she was dressed in a pale blue dress and her hair was – as always – perfectly coiffed. Eventually she came over to sit next to him.

"Do you always sleep this late?" she asked.

House shrugged, refusing to feel annoyed by the question.

"Never mind. If you'd like to go shower we still have time to get to the Chrysler Museum so we can see that exhibition and have lunch."

"You really want to do that?"

His mother's face fell. "Well, if you don't want to, that's fine, I guess. Is it your leg? Will it hurt too much to walk around?"

Guilt and anger at his mother's pity made House's breakfast curdle. "No! It's not—" He stopped himself and sucked in a breath. House forced himself to smile. "Fine. Let's go to the exhibition."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Blythe smiled and her blue eyes twinkled. "Oh goodie. I've so been looking forward to it." She got up and picked up his plate and began fussing around, cleaning up. "I was supposed to go with Emma – that's my neighbor—" she added for House's benefit, as if he hadn't heard her say the name a million times before, "—but she got invited to the opening and I couldn't ask her to go again. I didn't think I was going to get to see it, but now we'll go together. I'm so happy."

"I'm glad, Mom." And, House had to admit he actually _was _glad, at some level, to see his mother so excited.

"Now, go, scoot. Get dressed so we can get moving."

"Okay." He could do this. He could.

In the hallway on his way to the bathroom, House opened the closet to find a towel. Sure enough, there they were, all neatly folded with the sheets and other linen, but in the bottom of the cupboard were his mother's trowel, hand-spade and gardening gloves, still covered in dirt from her gardening the day before. Strange place to keep gardening tools, House thought. But then, maybe they were easy to reach there. He headed for the shower and forgot about it.

-

* * *

-

They got home again in the late afternoon. The exhibition hadn't been too horrible to bear, but it was longer than House had spent in his mother's presence since . . . since . . . a _really_ long time. And because the both of them were carefully avoiding talking about his father, that meant most discussion about their shared history was off limits. So it had been like spending the day with a seventy-three-year-old-woman you didn't know very well. Awkward. Boring. Exhausting.

"What time is it?" Blythe asked as she headed for the kitchen to put on the coffee pot.

"Almost four," House answered. It had to be the fifth time she'd asked him since they'd left the museum.

"Cammie will be over soon. You didn't eat all the pizza last night, did you Greg? I wanted some leftovers for Cammie."

"You're gonna give perfectly good pizza to a dog?" House asked, annoyed. He would have been annoyed no matter what she'd said.

"What?"

"The pizza."

"Yes, the pizza. Did you eat it all?"

House threw his hands in the air. "No. Who cares. Feed it to the garden, see if I care," he muttered.

"Don't be like that, Greg."

"Like what?"

"Don't be . . . huffy."

"I am _not _being huffy!" House only just managed to stop himself from banging his cane on the floor.

"Yes you are. You're being huffy and you're spoiling things."

"I am _not—_"

A snigger from the doorway made both House and Blythe turn.

"Yeah, she's your Mom alright." Still wearing black, still looking too skinny and greasy all over, the kid smirked at House.

"Cammie darling," Blythe said, her whole tone and body softening as she held her arms out to the boy.

"Hey Blythe," he said shrugging.

She put her arms around him and kissed both his cheeks. Her bottom lip stuck out as she took a step back and pouted at him. "I wish you wouldn't wear black, you're such a handsome boy – it's a shame to hide behind all that."

"Yeah, whatever." The kid shuffled his feet.

"Greg, this is Cammie. Cammie, this is my son, Gregory House. He's a doctor in Princeton. A world-famous doctor."

House didn't miss the proud tone in his mother's voice and his irritation faded somewhat. But his confusion didn't. "Cammie?"

"My name's Cameron. Not Cammie." The kid took a few steps towards House and stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you. You know, properly."

House paused a moment, but then took the proffered hand and shook it. "You're not a dog then."

The kid frowned. "Uh, no, I'm not a dog."

House looked from Cameron to Blythe as he worked things out. "Mom, you told me you look after Cammie . . . I mean, Cameron." He didn't correct himself because of the cringing glare on the boy's face, but out of male solidarity – it was ridiculous to call any boy _Cammie_.

"Well, we kind of look out for each other, don't we Cammie," Blythe said, giving the kid's arm a comradely squeeze.

"And exactly where did you crawl out of?" House demanded of the boy.

"Greg!" Blythe protested. "Cammie is Emma's son."

Ah. Suddenly the pieces fell into place. "Emma? Emma Porter? Your neighbor that you're always going on about? The one who . . ." He trailed off, because he didn't want to let his mother know that he'd come to check up on her. The fuddy-duddy old interfering neighbor had a teenage son? That was unexpected.

"The one who helps me out every now and then," his mother finished for him. "And in return I keep Cammie company after school when she has work to do or needs a break."

"How very convenient." His mother was providing a free babysitting service. Feeding the kid and probably his mom too. No doubt with the arthritis she wasn't as useful as she used to be – she'd mentioned that she didn't drive much anymore, so probably couldn't drive the kid around to his soccer practice or whatever the hell it was. And the neighbor had the temerity to call and complain because his mother wasn't doing a good enough job!

Blythe frowned. "Yes, it is convenient, but you're making it sound like a bad thing."

"I can go back home to Mom," Cameron piped up. "It's only her Saturday Shame, so if you're busy . . ."

"Her Saturday _what_?" House demanded.

"I think I should go," Cameron said, edging towards the door.

"You're not going anywhere," House said, striding for the door. "It's about time I met this Mrs Porter and put a few things straight."

"But Greg, please," Blythe pleaded.

"Wait here."

House stormed out of the kitchen and let the back door slam behind him. He headed straight for the gap in the fence he'd seen Cameron disappear through the day before, and twisted around to step through. It wasn't elegant, but House was too steamed up to care.

The next door yard was neat, but not military neat like his mother's. A bike lay on its side in the middle of the lawn, clothes were hanging haphazardly over a rack. A large shed at the back of the yard had a window and a padlocked door. Some of the pot plants near the backdoor were in less than healthy condition. Through sliding glass doors he could see a woman lounging on a sofa, tipping a bottle of wine into a wine glass. She was watching something on the TV that House couldn't quite see properly.

Without pausing to knock, House pulled open the door and stepped inside. "How dare you take advantage of my mother," he yelled.

"Fuck!" The woman shot about three feet into the air, knocking both wine glass and wine bottle to the floor with a crack. She turned to face him, one hand on her chest, the other balled into a fist. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Gregory House. And who do you think you are?"

"_You're_ Greg House?" she asked after a moment.

Why did the mocking tone in her voice make him feel resentful? Was it because that the last person he could have possibly imaged to be his mother's interfering neighbor was this gob-smackingly gorgeous blonde?

House was face-to-face with a MILF.

There was a sharp contrast between his outrage and the spark of lust that was making his boy parts sit up and pay attention. It only served to fuel his anger. "Yes I'm Greg House. And what do you think you're doing using my mother as your free babysitting service?"

"What?" She gave him an up-and-down look and when her beautiful toffee-brown eyes fell on the cane, her fist relaxed. That just incensed House further. In both ways.

"You. Using an old woman, a woman on a limited income, to take care of your son, _your_ responsibility! And you dare to call me and lecture me on taking care of my mother?" She hadn't exactly done that, but it was implied. "I think you're the one who needs some lessons on responsibility and duty."

Emma narrowed her eyes and her mouth pulled into a straight line. House could barely admit to himself that he was kind of excited about having her yell back at him. But before she said anything, the woman bent down and retrieved the broken glass and spilled bottle, grabbing a cloth from a table nearby and throwing it on the floor over the spreading wine stain.

"You're lucky I was drinking chardonnay," she said mildly. "Or else I'd bill you for cleaning the carpet."

"Huh?" House was thrown.

"Mom, are you okay?" Cameron appeared in the doorway, breathing hard. He'd clearly run from next door.

"I'm fine Cammie. Go back over to Blythe's while Greg and I talk," Emma said without taking her eyes off House.

"Yeah, Blythe said you could handle him, but I wanted to check when I heard him yell."

_His mother had said what?_

"Thanks, honey. Everything's fine." Emma gave her son a brief smile and then the kid backed out and disappeared through the fence the way he'd come.

"So," she said, giving House a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Why don't you sit down and we can talk rationally? If you ask nicely I might even give you a glass of wine."

_What was it with this weekend and women treating him like he was a child?_ House bristled. "What's there to talk about? It's clear you're using my mother and it's going to stop now!"

"You know what? We can stand here at yell at each other, if you want, but I'm tired and – until a moment ago – I was starting to wind down after a really busy week. Eventually we're going to have to talk civilly about what's going on, and if it's okay with you I'd just prefer to skip the yelling part." Emma picked up the broken glass and disappeared through a door that House could see led into a kitchen. She returned a few moments later with two unbroken glasses and poured wine into each, finishing off the half-spilled bottle.

She turned her back and sat down on the sofa again, delicately sipping her wine while House was still standing in the doorway, breathing heavily, impotent rage racing through him. It took a moment before he recognized that the show on the TV was Prescription Passion – his medical soapie addiction.

"You're a doctor, aren't you?" she asked, breaking the silence, her back to him. "You must hate shows like this."

House swallowed hard. He was struggling to turn his emotions on a dime, to calm down to match his opponent. She was using negotiating tactics against him – House knew only too well that one way to face a furiously angry enemy was to take the other extreme and play it dead calm. It made the other person even more furious, but also had the advantage of making them look hysterical and ridiculous. He'd used the tactic several times himself, having no idea how devastatingly effective it could be.

House was a man of many talents though. He could surprise her. "Has Kimmie announced who the father of her twins is?" he asked, matching her mild tone.

Emma twisted in the seat to look back at him. Yes, he'd surprised her. "Uh, no, not yet. Probably after the next ad break. But this is Wednesday's episode."

"Yeah, I missed it – I haven't caught up on my Tivo yet."

"This is what Cammie calls my Saturday Shame," Emma said, turning back to the TV. She shuffled over on the sofa, a mute invitation to join her. "After I've run him to band practice and baseball practice and we've done the grocery shopping, I get to sit down and watch the episodes I've recorded from during the week with a glass of wine. And he leaves me alone until it's time to do whatever he has on for Saturday night. It's my little indulgence for the week."

House took the few steps to the sofa and sat down next to her. She was still looking at the screen so he took advantage of the moment to check her out more thoroughly. Her blonde hair was cropped into an asymmetrical shape that meant it touched her shoulder on one side, while revealing her ear on the other. She was wearing black leggings and ballet flats, with a long grey t-shirt-style dress and a draped kind of vest-thing over it. The look was alternative, arty, and yet didn't look out of place on a woman who had to be somewhere around forty. Her leggings showed off spectacular pins, and although the drapey top made it hard to properly distinguish her figure, it had slipped off one shoulder revealing creamy skin and prominent collar bones that House inexplicably wanted to lick and bruise with a sucking kiss. She shared her son's expressive brown eyes, although they were framed by bright red squarish glasses that sat down a little from the bridge of her nose.

House wasn't necessarily into that kind of thing, but he could easily see her playing the part of some dungeon mistress, staring haughtily down through her glasses as she flicked a whip by her side. So far she'd managed to dominate him.

"Would you like some wine?" Emma leaned forward and picked up the glass of wine and held it out to him. The slightest blush heated her cheeks – she'd felt him check her out. He wondered if she was flattered or embarrassed.

"No," House shook his head. His new personal rule – post Mayfield – when it was easy to say no, he said no.

"Fine." She put it back down, picked up the remote and turned the TV off. "I can watch that another time. Let's talk about your mother."

House noted how neatly she'd maneuvered him into a civil conversation. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as the yelling spree he wanted – it would have been a great way to release his frustrations after the day spent with his mother – but he couldn't help being impressed by her technique. And ultimately she was right – there was a real problem here that had to be solved. "You cannot expect my mother to look after your son like this. She's not capable," he said, trying to be reasonable.

"Exactly." Emma nodded. "However my son is almost fourteen years old and he's a very mature boy for his age. And he is quite capable of looking after your mother."

"_What?_"

"Look, when we first moved here, six months ago, Cammie and Blythe made friends. And at first maybe it was a help to me that I knew where Cammie was and he had somewhere to go after school, but then it became clear that – some days especially – it was dangerous for Blythe to be on her own. Cammie just keeps her company and keeps an eye on her. And, of course, so do I."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with my mother."

At that, Emma's calm countenance did slip a little. She looked at him in angry disbelief. "Are you blind?"

"She has arthritis in her hands. She can't look after the house as well as she used to – I've seen it. I'm going to hire her a housekeeper. And I'm going to talk to her doctor about her condition – see if there's anything we can do to better manage it."

"Well that's great and all, but how is that going to help with everything else?"

"What 'everything else'?"

Emma threw up her hands. "Did she tell you she doesn't like to drive anymore?"

"Yes – because of her hands."

"No." She shook her head, sadly. "She hit a dog and drove into a fence. Luckily it was just down the street and I was here at the time. She was so confused, she had no idea what she'd done. Fortunately the neighbor was very understanding and the dog was okay eventually. Blythe doesn't even remember the accident, but she remembers something bad about driving, so she doesn't even try to take the car out anymore. Which is good, because I have her car keys here."

House was surprisingly rattled to hear the story. He covered it up with bluster, as usual. "So she had an accident. Could have happened to anyone! A dog ran out on the road – she swerved. Big deal!"

Emma raised her eyebrows. "The dog was on the sidewalk. So was the little girl walking him. Lucky she hit the dog."

House fell silent at that.

"And you mean to say you haven't noticed anything else about your mother? She's usually good in the mornings – it's the afternoon and evenings, when she gets tired, that things go strange. Look, I'm not a doctor, but I looked up a few things on the internet . . ." Emma began.

"Oh, thank God for the all-powerful interwebs," House muttered.

Emma ignored him. ". . .and there are some key signs your mother shows that I think are serious. She forgets words."

"Don't we all?"

"She forgets where she is sometimes – what date it is. She talks about your father like he's still around. She gets anxious and panicked when she realizes he's not there."

House remembered Thirteen telling him about the conversation she'd overheard when his mother had referred to his childhood habit of building doll hospitals. "You're just misunderstanding her," he protested. He was sure that was what had happened.

"She puts things in the wrong places. Forgets what she's doing half-way through. Thankfully that hasn't happened yet while she's been cooking, but I've seen it happen when she's making coffee. And it's getting worse. Between us, Cammie and I check in on her every day, but we can't be there all the time. I don't want her to get hurt."

"You're overreacting."

"How was she last night?"

"Fine." House pushed aside the cold casserole, the half-made bed, the gardening tools in the hall closet. The fact that his mother had gone to bed incredibly early. It was all circumstantial.

"Hmm." Emma looked thoughtful. "She was probably trying really hard because you were there. It does come and go."

"How very convenient."

"No, actually. It's not." Emma twisted on the sofa and tucked one leg underneath her so she could face House. "Look, I know you don't believe me, but you have to ask yourself, what possible motive could I have for lying about this? If Blythe were perfectly okay, it would make my life easier, not harder."

"So you don't want me to hire a housekeeper? One that might also just happen to ensure that your son's babysitter is better able to provide free services to you?"

"A housekeeper would be a start. But it's not going to be a long-term solution. She's getting worse. You need to think about more . . . permanent options."

"You mean, _put my mother in a home?_"

Blythe House? The woman who'd lived on four continents, who'd survived a military life with a controlling marine for a husband and a wayward scoundrel for a son? In a home? It beggared belief.

Emma shrugged. "I don't want . . ." A look of pain and sadness crossed her face. "Blythe and I have become close. I know she'd hate it. But I don't know what else to suggest."

The pleading, distressed look on Emma's face did a lot more to convince House of her story than any of her words had done. After all, House had inherited a little of his mother's human polygraph abilities, and right now, he would have sworn that Emma was telling the truth.

Still. It was all a little much to deal with."What, do you want her house or something? Are you trying to buy up the land?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'd like to invite you and your mother over for dinner tonight. We'll barbecue. And I want you to pay close attention to her this afternoon and tonight to see how she behaves. It's always when she's tired that it's worse."

"You want us to come over here so you can point out every little slip up that my mother makes in an attempt to convince me she's gone batty?"

"Actually, I think it's Alzheimer's," Emma said gently.

House stood up and walked out without saying anything further. Dinner? He'd think about it. At least it would be one less night of just him and his mother alone together. It'd probably be worth it just for that.


	3. Chapter 3

Since Greg hadn't really given her an answer, Emma had sent Cammie over to repeat the dinner invitation to Blythe. Blythe had sent back acceptances, as Emma knew she would, and since then Emma had been preparing salads and marinating chicken for the barbecue.

"Cammie!" Emma called out over the noise of a video game. "You need to get the grill going!"

"Yeah Mom, just a minute. I just have to . . ." Whatever else he said was lost in the sound of electronic gunfire.

It had been _just a minute_ ten minutes ago, and ten minutes before that. Emma loved her son to the ends of the earth and back, but sometimes he irritated the living heck out of her. "No. Stop now. Our guests will be here shortly."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered.

Sure enough the doorbell rang a moment later. Emma wiped her hands on a cloth and headed for the door, yelling out an ineffectual "Cammie!" over her shoulder as she went. She smoothed down her dress, wondering if it was too obvious that she'd made an effort. Cammie hadn't said anything, but then he was thirteen and barely noticed his mother unless she wasn't around to do something for him.

The man who'd appeared so suddenly in her living room that afternoon had startled her for more than one reason. She'd seen his photo before of course, with his girlfriend – not _wife_ Blythe had somewhat bitterly pointed out – but he looked different now, older and more worn. She certainly hadn't expected to find him attractive. Especially given that outside her TV screen or the movie theatre, she hadn't found _any_ man attractive for years. Emma had always been a sucker for tall men, and those piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders and the slightly haunted expression just filled out the package that was sealed and labeled "Emma Porter's Ideal Man". Emma knew he was fifty – ten years older than her and older than she'd usually go for – but there was just something about him. Was it some daddy-fantasy? If it had been, it had been dispelled the moment he opened his mouth and threw a tantrum like a child. Perhaps it was the contradiction. Emma had always had a thing for contradictions.

"Hello dear," Blythe said warmly as Emma opened the door.

"Hi Blythe." They leaned in for a quick hug. She stepped back and gave the man behind Blythe a polite smile. "Hi Greg." She strained to make sure her voice sounded normal.

"Don't spill it," he said.

"Huh?" Emma was confused until she realized he was holding out a bottle of red wine to her. "Oh, thanks. Come in."

She led the way to the kitchen, where she opened the wine and poured three glasses.

"Can I have some?" Cammie asked, appearing suddenly behind her. He rested his chin on her shoulder and looked up at her with a puppy-dog face.

"You can have a little with your dinner, but not now."

"Aw." Cammie slouched away and flopped down into a chair. You'd think the boy had something wrong with his knees the way he always had to throw himself at chairs or the sofa, Emma reflected.

"I wasn't allowed any alcohol until I was twenty-one," Greg said, his eyes on her. Emma wondered if he was interested. Was he? She thought he'd checked her out when they had been sitting on the sofa earlier. But it had been so long since she'd so much as flirted, she had no idea anymore.

"Yes, but it wasn't like that stopped you." Blythe gave her son a sly smile.

He turned to his mother and looked genuinely surprised. "Huh? You knew?"

"Hard to miss the smell of blackberry wine."

Greg groaned. "Hey kid, whatever you do, don't go for the blackberry wine."

"Sounds gross anyway," Cammie replied.

"You were lucky I always cleaned up the bathroom before your father got up," Blythe said.

At the mention of his father, shutters came down over Greg's eyes and as soon as that happened, Blythe stiffened up as well. Ah. Emma was starting to get an inkling of what the family dynamic might be all about. Blythe had only ever spoken of her husband in glowing terms. She might have mentioned that her husband and son didn't always see eye-to-eye, but that was the extent of it. Clearly there was far more to the story.

"Cammie, did you pack away the X-box?" Emma said, deliberately changing the subject.

"Not yet. I'm still in the middle of a game."

"We'll be eating soon."

"So?"

Emma held in a sigh. "So?" had to be her least favorite syllable of her son's new teenage vocabulary.

"Are we having hashbrowns?"

His favorite food. Cameron wanted to eat hashbrowns for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It had gotten to the point that the very thought of them made Emma feel slightly nauseous. She shook her head. "No, we are not having hashbrowns."

"But Mo-om."

"What are you playing?" Greg asked, just in time to stop the escalation of a fight.

"Duke Nukem 3D."

"Have you killed the Alien Overlord yet?"

"Of course. _I got balls of steel._" Cameron put on a funny deep voice.

Emma recognized it as a line from the game simply because she'd heard it so many times, but Blythe looked a little shocked. Greg on the other hand, was grinning.

"Yeah?"

Both males were almost imperceptibly inching towards the living room.

She flicked both her hands at them. "Go. Play. Blythe and I will look after dinner, but you guys are doing the dishes." Even as she said it, she knew it would never happen.

Blythe shook her head as the two disappeared and a loud noise began shortly after. "Boys don't really ever grow up, do they?"

"That's what I'm worried about," Emma muttered.

The two women began organizing the salads Emma had already prepared, and Emma took the chicken out to the grill. After Blythe had put out cutlery on the table – Emma noted she didn't lay out place-settings, just put the forks and knives in piles – she came out to stand by Emma and watch.

"That looks delicious," Blythe offered.

"It's nothing much, but it'll do. Keep the men fed," she said.

"That's what's important. Keep them fed – both their stomachs and their egos – and you'll be fine."

Emma raised her eyebrow at the uncharacteristic remark. "Really? Pearls of wisdom from experience, Blythe?"

"I've been mother to a son for fifty years now. And a wife for a little longer."

"That's true." Emma nodded, wondering if Blythe meant "wife" in the present tense. Now wasn't the time to press her – Greg wasn't around to see anyway. Emma held her breath for a moment as the question she really wanted to ask burned on her tongue. She let it out in a rush. "So . . . did Greg's girlfriend come with him this trip?" She tried hard to sound casual, even as she knew it was a stupid question. Of course she hadn't come – if she had, she'd be there for dinner.

"Oh, no. They broke up. A while ago now."

"Ah." Emma didn't dare look over at Blythe in case she gave herself away.

"I have to say, that's one of the hardest things about being a mother. Seeing your child alone and unhappy."

At that Emma did look over at Blythe and the older woman had an anguished expression on her face. Emma reached over and gave Blythe a squeeze. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

Blythe shrugged and composed her face into a smile. "Well I know you're not going to have anything like that problem with Cammie. He's just too loveable."

Emma rolled her eyes, thinking about the fight they'd had that morning over the state of his room and his current refusal to stop playing video games. "He has his moments," she said finally.

-

* * *

-

House followed Cameron into the living room to play video games while the two women prepared dinner. It wasn't long into the game that House realized he was in for a humiliating defeat from the thirteen year-old and therefore decided it was time to return to the kitchen. Maybe spend a little more time ogling Emma in that tight little scoop-necked dress she had on and those cute red glasses that magnified her eyes.

"Come on kid, we should help your mother." He put the game controller down.

"Nah, she's fine." Cameron kept playing until he could no longer progress because House had stopped participating. He threw down the controller with a sigh. "Okay. Come and see my room, first," he offered.

House vaguely remembered that the offer to "come see my room" was the teen equivalent of "let's be friends". If he wanted to get anywhere with Emma, sucking up to her son couldn't hurt. Besides there was something about the kid that House liked, even if he couldn't quite work out what. Perhaps Cameron just reminded House of himself at that age. Minus the black.

House shrugged. "Sure."

"I'm in a band," Cameron said, showing him up the corridor to a door that had _Keep Clear_ and _Do Not Disturb – Genius at Work_ signs plastered on it.

"Yeah? What kind of band?"

"Uh, a bit of everything. Emo, you know. Rock. And some hip hop."

The combination sounded pretty unlikely to House.

"It's going okay. We need to practice more. Blythe said you play the piano."

"Yeah. And the guitar," House offered when he saw the _Foo Fighters_ poster on the wall. "Good taste," he said, gesturing to it.

"I wanted to play the guitar," Cameron said, kicking a pile of black clothes on the floor before sitting heavily on his bed.

Black sheets, House noticed. Crap everywhere that betrayed the awkward limbo of this point in the kid's life: a Lego spaceship lying on top of a pile of CDs, a poster of the solar system next to a poster of some unidentified bikini girl from _Sports Illustrated_. Apart from the predominance of black – Blythe would never have allowed him black sheets_, if they even made them back then_ – the room looked a little like House remembered his own being at this age. It had been an endless source of friction with John House who wanted his son to make the bed each morning with military corners. House had, of course, ensured that his room was exactly the opposite, messy and undisciplined. But he was sure his room never smelled as bad as this one did. "So why don't you play guitar?" he asked.

"School kind of randomly assigns instruments. I missed out on guitar."

"Why don't you buy yourself one?"

"I'm saving up."

"I've got a Flying V at home." House couldn't believe he was boasting. But this weekend he was in a time warp, and boasting was what teenage boys did best. Well, second-best.

"Really?" The kids eyebrows flew up. "Like Dave Grohl?"

"Yep. And a Stratocaster."

"That's so cool."

"I like the acoustic best though. It's a Maton."

"Wicked." Cameron clearly didn't know what that meant, but he was playing it cool.

"So what do you play in the band?" House asked, deciding to stand just inside the room and lean against the doorjamb. At least he got the occasional waft of fresh air that way.

"Saxophone," Cameron said dejectedly.

"Alto or tenor?"

"Alto."

"So, show me your _Baker Street_."

"My what?"

"_Baker Street_. Gerry Rafferty. The first riff every saxophonist learns to play."

"Don't know it," Cameron shrugged.

"Man! That is like the _Stairway to Heaven_ for saxophones!"

"Stairway to Heaven?"

"_What_ is your mother teaching you?" House threw up his hands in horror at the kid's musical ignorance.

"She got me to learn the sax riff from _The Living Daylights_, by _a-ha_. That was a James Bond theme, from before the movies had Daniel Craig in them and got good."

House opened his mouth but no sound came out, such was his indignation.

"Want me to play that for you?"

"God no." House shuddered.

"Are you good on the piano?"

House shrugged. "I'm okay."

"Our keyboard player, Frankie, sucks, but his dad has an empty garage that he lets us practice in." Cameron dragged a black instrument case out from under the bed and then reached across and switched on an Apple laptop that was half-hidden under the pillow.

"Geoff Raffery did you say? I'll download it."

"_Gerry Rafferty_," House repeated.

"Boys!" Emma's voice echoed down the corridor and House didn't miss the teasing note. "Time to stop playing and wash up for dinner, please!"

Cameron didn't move for a moment, but then eventually he hauled himself to his feet as if it took more energy than he was capable of. "I guess Mom wants us to go eat."

"I guess so," House said, nodding.

Cameron pushed past him. "I'll download it after dinner. And I'll play you one of our demos. You'll like it."

House doubted that very much, but he followed the kid to the bathroom, washed his hands in turn and then headed back out to the kitchen for dinner. When he saw Emma bent over, picking up something from the floor, the sight of her rounded ass and the outline of a thong pressed against the fine fabric of her dress made House's trousers twitch.

Being thirteen again sucked, but it wasn't _all_ bad.

-

* * *

-

Dinner went smoothly and much to Emma's annoyance, Blythe was having a good day. An extremely good day. There wasn't so much a hint of confusion or forgetfulness. Not that Emma wished it on her, but it made it so much harder to convince Greg. As per usual, the older woman only ate half her meal, but that didn't prove anything either and Greg didn't even seem to notice.

The four of them sat around the table after they'd eaten and for once her darling boy mostly behaved himself too. She knew that being thirteen was awful, she knew that he was trapped between boyhood and manhood, but sometimes – most of the time – she just wanted him to be a little boy again, the little boy she could cuddle and scold and who would pay attention to his mother. Luckily tonight it seemed he was playing the twelve side of thirteen, and he was cute and charming and gorgeous and her heart almost broke for how much she loved him.

"Greg told me about a saxophone song he reckons I have to learn," Cammie announced.

"Greg is very musical, he always was," Blythe said proudly. "He started learning piano at five."

"Really?" Emma asked, surprised, but then she looked at his hands and could see it straight away.

"Yeah," Greg said lazily. "But it wasn't fun until about twenty years later."

"Oh, you had plenty of fun," Blythe contradicted. "You were going to run off with that band of yours and be rich and famous."

"As if," Greg muttered, sounding much like Cammie.

"It's just as well you stayed at school though, isn't it?" Blythe reached over and patted her son's hand. "Look at you now."

"Yeah, I would have been _so unhappy_ as a world famous rock star doing drugs and sleeping with groupies."

His curt tone surprised Emma, but his mother seemed to take it in her stride.

"I'm gonna be a rock star," Cammie said to no one in particular.

"I thought you were going to be a marine?" Blythe said, frowning. "We spend all that time talking about what it's like in the marines."

Cammie looked embarrassed. "A rock star or a marine. I haven't decided yet."

Greg snorted. "Marine or rock star. What a decision." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Cameron looked even more embarrassed. It was clear to Emma that for whatever reason her son had taken a shine to Greg House and his disdain hurt.

"Let's just worry about you getting through school this year and worry about the rest of that later, okay?" she said. She ran a protective hand over her son's head and then instantly regretted the move, surreptitiously wiping her now-greasy palm on her napkin. "Cammie's really great at science," she added, feeling a need to praise him.

"Well, maybe he could become a doctor," Blythe said brightly. "You need to be good at science, don't you Greg?"

"The kid's thirteen, let him be a rock star," Greg told his mother sharply.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. "I'm almost fourteen," Cammie said eventually, but unfortunately his voice broke in the middle of the word "fourteen", going up an octave. Emma's heart broke all over again for her awkward son. He fell silent and slunk further down in his seat, his fingers tangling with the tablecloth.

"You're right, he has plenty of time to decide," Blythe said diplomatically. "Emma, Greg and I went to the Chrysler museum today. We saw the local art exhibition you told me about."

"Oh that's great," Emma said enthusiastically, glad for the change of subject. "Did you enjoy it, Greg?"

"It was okay." He sounded distracted. Emma had been avoiding looking him in the eyes, because every moment of eye contact felt like flirting, and she was too awkward to know what to do about it. "Just okay?" she pressed, looking at him directly.

He looked away from her and shrugged.

Emma felt like slinking down next to Cammie. Both of them seeking the same man's approval and failing to get it. Oh, it sucked.

"What was the name of that friend of yours?" Blythe asked.

Emma remembered she needed to be an adult and straightened up in her chair. "Julianne Connor. Did you see her painting? It was a big one, kind of an abstract landscape."

"Yes, I remember the one." Blythe nudged her son. "Greg, Emma is an artist."

"No, I'm not, really," Emma protested.

"She paints," Blythe insisted.

"I dabble."

"What do you paint?" Greg asked.

"Mom paints naked men!" Cammie burst out suddenly with a goofy giggle.

Greg chuckled and Cammie sat up straighter, recognizing approval in the laughter. Meanwhile Greg's blue eyes settled on Emma's. "Really?" He raised one eyebrow and it was all Emma could do not to congeal in a little puddle at his feet.

"They're very artistic," Blythe interrupted. "Tasteful."

Emma held Greg's gaze even as her heart raced. She was going to let him know she was interested. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? The worst she could do would be to make an idiot of herself. Her dear son did that every day, and he was still alive.

"Are you offering to model?" she asked, tilting her chin up at him.

"Naked, huh?"

"That's right."

"You got enough paint?"

"Greg!" Blythe scolded, looking mock-outraged while the other three people at the table laughed.

The little flirting spell between them was broken, but Emma could still feel her body tingling. She felt . . . alive. For the first time in a long time. "Come on Cammie, help me with the dishes."

The four of them ended up in the kitchen, which was too many people for such a small space, but somehow the dishes got put in the dishwasher and things were put away. It was early, but Emma wasn't surprised when Blythe faked a yawn and asked to be excused. It was starting to get to the time when her tiredness would make her forgetfulness more evident. Emma was on to her. It wasn't just Greg's refusal to see his mother's decline, his mother was actively trying to hide it from him too.

"I have some dessert," Emma offered, hoping she might stay a little longer, if only to slip up so Greg could witness it.

"Thank you dear, but I won't worry this time. I'm worn out after all the walking and talking we did today. Greg and I had such a lovely day together."

"Okay Mom, if you're ready to go, we'll go." Was she imagining it, or did Greg look disappointed at having to leave so early? "Have you got your purse?"

"Oh, Greg, no, you must stay. There's no point you coming home with your poor old mother just to sit around and watch TV. Don't miss out on dessert."

"Okay," he agreed readily. Emma internally fist-pumped the air. "Let me see you home first, though."

"No, I'll let my boyfriend do that," Blythe said with an exaggerated wink. "Cammie, care to see an old lady to her front door?"

"Sure, Blythe."

Emma sent double thanks to TPTB, Greg had manners and, thank God – even if they only worked occasionally – so did her son.

Teenager and pensioner disappeared out the front door and Emma was left with Greg in the kitchen.

"I don't really have much in the way of dessert. Just vanilla ice cream and fudge sauce. Maybe a banana so I can get the kid to eat some fruit."

"Sounds fine to me."

Emma grabbed the ingredients from the refrigerator as her neighbor's son leaned against the counter and watched.

"So, what do you do when you're not painting naked men?" he asked.

"Painting naked men takes up less time than you'd think," she replied with a quick grin. "Actually I have my own graphic design business. I have a studio in the shed out the back." She gestured to the small building out in the yard that held her well-equipped office. "I do ads, newsletters, annual reports, that kind of thing. It's been great, flexible, it lets me be home for Cammie when he needs me and I've got a good client base."

"And Cameron's Dad? He around?"

Emma wondered if she'd sounded as fake-casual when she'd asked Blythe about Stacy. "He's not around."

"D-I-V-O-R-C-E?" he spelled out.

"Actually it's W-I-D-O-W, which is way harder to sing," Emma replied flippantly.

"Whoa. When?"

"Ten years ago. Afghanistan."

"He was military?"

"Not by then he wasn't. He got out of the navy and then went back as a private contractor."

"Sucks."

"Yeah."

Silence fell and Emma wondered what to say next. It was a hard subject to top.

"Mom!" Cammie's whine echoed through the house as he slammed the front door behind him.

"What, honey?"

"Where's my experiment?"

Emma threw Greg a look of exasperation. "What experiment?" she called back patiently.

"The one on the front lawn. The meat."

"You mean that disgusting plate? I threw it out."

"Mo-o-o-om!" Cameron appeared and he was clearly not happy. "That was an important experiment – I was taking photos of different kinds of meat decaying for my blog. I'd been working on it for days! I told you not to touch my stuff!"

"Cammie, that was disgusting, it could have made you sick."

"How many times do I have to tell you, _don't_ touch my stuff!"

"It does suck when people touch your stuff," Greg said. Emma thought he was mocking again, but when she looked over, he was deadpan.

"See, Greg agrees with me," Cammie claimed. "Don't. Touch. My. Stuff."

"Fine," Emma sighed. "You want a banana split?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?" she prompted.

That proved too much for the teen and he spun on his heel and marched up the corridor. The sound of his bedroom door slamming came a minute later.

Emma gave Greg a small smile. "The joys of parenting."

"The horrors of being a thirteen year old boy," he countered.

She cocked her head. "You're right." Emma grabbed two bowls. "Up for a banana split with me then? I still haven't finished watching Prescription Passion. We could watch Wednesday's episode from the start, if you'd like."

"Sounds good."

Emma spooned ice cream into bowls, topping it with sliced banana and fudge sauce. She was trying hard not to let her nervousness show. Sitting on her sofa on Saturday night watching TV with a sundae wasn't all that unusual. With a man? That was unheard of.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews. I can't tell you how much they mean to me. Just a note, I have updated this story to try to work in with some of the stuff revealed about House's family in the most recent episode, but it's nothing really spoilery if you haven't seen it.

-

* * *

House finished his banana split in record time and then leaned back into the corner of the couch. He spread his arms wide, one stretched out along the back, hopefully making it clear that Emma was welcome to invade his personal space at any time.

So far she was just sitting there, close, but not close enough, and House wondered if he'd imagined things. Wondered why he was bothering anyway – he was heading back home day after tomorrow, and sleeping with his mother's neighbor wasn't exactly guaranteed entanglement-free. Still, they had some kind of spark, he was sure of it, and they were two consenting adults . . .

He wondered what Nolan would think.

"Do you think Kimmie is going to give up the twins for adoption after they're born?" Emma asked without taking her eyes of the screen. She'd poured them both fresh glasses of wine, but House's still sat untouched, while Emma's was rapidly disappearing. It was a calculated decision – if he wanted to get Emma in bed, _and _be able to do something when they got there, then SSRIs _plus_ alcohol wasn't an ideal combination.

"She'd be a fool if she did," House said. "They're going to inherit Victor's fortune."

At that she did turn and smile at him. "So you think they're Victor's kids?"

"Pretty sure. He was the one she went to when she had the amnesia."

"Yeah, but what about Clint? He rescued her from the kidnappers."

"But Clint had that accident – he's infertile."

"_That's_ what would make it such a cool twist!" Her eyes sparkled behind her cute little red glasses and she grabbed the remote and paused the playback. "Wanna make a bet on who the dad is?"

"Hang on, you've already seen it – do you already know?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

She put her hand on her chest. "I swear, I haven't watched it past the point that she goes into labor."

"What do you want to bet?" House asked. A few options ran through his mind.

"Ten bucks says they're Clint's."

"I can think of something more interesting to bet," House said. He gave her a slow smile and he watched her eyes widen. Her tongue slipped out to nervously dampen her lips. "How about—"

"Are you guys really watching this crap?" Cameron sauntered out into the living room and House just managed to stop himself from leaping up and strangling the kid.

"Yes we are," Emma said, "and you can stop interrupting."

"I want to play X-box again."

"Well, you can't."

"_This_ is why I need a TV in my bedroom."

"You have a computer!"

"The games on it are boring."

"Cammie, either sit down with us and watch quietly, or find something else to do."

House cleared his throat. "Hey Cameron, do you play by ear or read music?"

"Both. I have to do music theory at school."

"Why don't you download that song I told you about and see if you can get the riff?"

"Is it hard?"

"Yeah, it's pretty hard. You'll just have to listen to it. Might take a while, but I'd be really impressed if you had it down by tomorrow." It was blatant manipulation, but whatever worked, House figured.

"Yeah . . . Yeah. I reckon I could get it. Okay. Cool. I'll do that. See you guys later."

"G'night Cammie – are you gonna give me a kiss?"

Cameron snuck an embarrassed glance at House and then rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay."

Emma seemed to have taken pity on her son, because she didn't draw it out – just gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek and then Cameron hightailed it out of the living room.

She sighed as his bedroom door closed. "Ah, Cammie."

"You know, it's none of my business, but seeing as that's never stopped me before: I really think you need to stop calling the kid Cammie. I thought he was a dog." House wasn't entirely sure why he felt the need to defend Cameron.

"Huh?"

"Why you called him Cameron in the first place I'll never know, but it's better than Cammie. I hope you don't call him Cammie in front of his friends."

Emma frowned and House wondered if she was going to argue with him. That might be fun too, but he was kind of hoping for moving into relaxed cuddling very soon, and an argument would delay that.

"You're probably right," she said eventually. "I'd never thought about it."

"The kid's trying so hard to be an adult. The least you could do is call him by an adult name."

"Yeah, you're right. I forget that he's so grown up. One minute I had a baby boy. The next minute I have a sullen teenager who speaks in grunts half the time. I don't understand. He's sunny and happy one moment and the next he's a pain in the ass."

"He's a teenager. We've all been there."

"Yeah," she sighed. "I guess. But I don't remember being this withdrawn and secretive."

"Seriously? Withdrawn and secretive are compulsory teen memes."

"I guess. Sometimes . . . this sounds terrible, but, sometimes it's so hard not to laugh at him. Last week he started reading _Catcher in the Rye_. He's underlining it and everything, with this deadly earnest look on his face, as if he's the first person ever to discover it. When he started reading parts of it out loud, I swear I had to go into my room and put a pillow over my head so he couldn't hear me laughing."

House chuckled. "Is he writing poetry yet?" In his own teenage years, House had never done existential literature, instead he'd written tortured poems that he disguised as song lyrics.

"Oh God no. That's still to come isn't it?" She shook her head. "How I'm going to cope with that?"

"Just be careful not to accidentally smother yourself."

She snorted a laugh. "He probably won't show me anyway."

"Probably not."

"So secretive." She sighed again. "Maybe it's a boy thing?" she asked, vague hope in her voice.

"Maybe." House shrugged. "I figured it was just a teen thing."

"I remember exactly when it changed; the first secret. He did the laundry. Out of nowhere. He'd never done it before and he almost tipped a whole box of detergent into the machine." She flopped back against the sofa and sipped from her glass of wine. "Like I wouldn't understand! He could have talked to me."

"Laundry? You lost me."

"He was washing his _sheets_."

"Huh? _Oh._" House shifted uncomfortably. "Look, this is something I am totally unqualified to talk about. I mean, unqualified from the being-a-parent perspective. Not the . . . well. Anyway. But you're his _Mom_ – of course he doesn't want to talk to you about that. And quite frankly, neither do I."

"Sorry. It's the wine. I have a couple and I get chatty. It's been a while since I've had another adult to talk to." Emma leaned forward to put her wine back down on the table and when she sat back on the sofa, she moved a few inches closer.

"You talk to my mother a lot," House pointed out.

"Yeah." She gave him a grim smile. "As I said, it's been a while since I've had another adult to talk to."

House made a frustrated noise. She wasn't going to go on about that again, was she? "You are totally imagining things."

"Who's Tommy?" Emma asked suddenly.

"Tommy?"

"He's someone that your mother mentions occasionally. Mostly when she's really confused. She tries to find him. I wondered if he might have been your brother or something – did you have a sibling that died?"

"Brother? No. Mom had a miscarriage when I was about five, but it was early, they never named the baby."

Emma shrugged. "Oh well, it was just a guess. She seems often quite frantic when she talks about him."

Tommy? House had no idea who—

Damn.

_Thomas. Thomas Bell._ The man House was pretty sure was his biological father.

"What does she say?" House tried to sound casual.

"Nothing specific. Just about going to see him, making a time to go to see him. Sometimes she thinks she's running late and that he won't wait for her. She gets very anxious."

"I still haven't seen anything that indicates my mother is anything less than fully capable."

Emma sighed. "Yes, I know. She's doing a great job hiding it from you. I can see that." She gave him a tight smile. "And I understand why."

"Emma, I don't—"

Emma put a hand on his knee and squeezed, and House stopped talking. "Let's just watch the TV show and forget about your Mom for a while, okay?" she said, taking her hand from his knee to reach for the remote.

"Fine with me," House muttered.

They watched the show in not-quite-comfortable silence and when it was revealed that Victor was, indeed, the father of Kimmie's twins, Emma made a disgusted noise and shot him a look. The program ended shortly afterward and Emma turned off the TV. She took off her glasses and sat them down next to the remote as she rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"I don't believe it. Victor! They had sex while she had amnesia! She didn't even know who she was."

"Victor just made the best of the opportunity. That's why he's so rich."

Emma picked up her wine and drained the rest of it before twisting a little in her seat to face House. "I so wanted it to be Clint, so that Kimmie could have a happy ending."

"Nah, that'd be worse, because you know there are no happy endings on this show. If they did that, Clint would have to cheat on her or something and that would ruin everything. At least this way you still have the possibility of Clint and Kimmie ending up together."

Emma shrugged. "You're right. I'll just have to live in hope."

"I guess so."

She looked away and bit her bottom lip with her front teeth before looking up at him from under her eyelashes. "You won the bet."

"So I did."

"We didn't agree the terms."

"No, we didn't."

"I'd really like to kiss you."

As much as he expected it – even welcomed it – House was taken aback by her directness. "But you're the loser, you don't get to chose." Even as he said the words, he wanted to swallow them. Why did he always sabotage himself?

"Oh." Her face fell.

"Sorry, I—"

"No, no, it's okay. It's my fault. I imagined things. It's been so long since I had a guy in my living room, I automatically jumped to the wrong conclusion." Her face was turning beet red.

"Look, it's fine, we can . . . ah, _fuck it_." House leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. Because he closed his eyes on the way there, he half-missed, getting her bottom lip and a lot of her chin instead. Their noses knocked and Emma gasped.

House pulled back a couple of inches and shook his head in disgust at himself. Emma's eyes were wide with surprise. "Sorry," he muttered. "Guess I'm not very good at that. Out of practice."

Her expression softened. "Let's try it again then."

House felt his cheek cupped by her soft hand, her thumb gently caressing his chin and then under his jaw. "Softer than I thought," she murmured. Then she closed her eyes and her lips unerringly found his, brushing across them from one side to the other and back again, a gentle, whisper-light kiss.

House's eyes fluttered closed, the better to concentrate on the sensations. Emma's lips parted slightly, just enough to enable her to catch his bottom lip between hers. House did the same back to her, holding on to her bottom lip longer, giving it a gentle suck before releasing her.

Emma gasped but this time it was different, her breath catching with arousal and desire. House kissed her again, this time running just the tip of his tongue along her bottom lip. Emma's lips parted and her tongue flicked out to touch against his.

The next thing he knew, Emma was sprawled in his lap, his arms were around her, and they were kissing as if each held the answer to every question they'd ever had. Breathing no longer mattered. They explored and learned, taking in each other's air, taste and textures and House's mind was utterly blank except for this woman and the warmth and weight of holding her close. One of Emma's hands was still cupping his face, playing with his beard, fingers reaching to trace the shape of his ear. Her other hand was fisted in his shirt, against his chest, and he could feel her trembling.

House trailed his hands over her back, feeling her shoulder blades and the bumpy contours of her spine. When he reached her hips he let his fingers fan out, his thumbs resting along the top of her hipbones. He kissed across her cheek, over to her ear, and Emma arched her neck so he could kiss her there, little nibbling kisses from her earlobe to her clavicle. He remembered the first sight he'd had of her, and of his instant, insane desire to mark her with a bruising kiss. He nipped her, pulling her skin between his teeth, sucking hard before laving her with his tongue.

She let out a strangled groan and the sound went straight through House, curling his toes and making the growing response in his jeans throb almost painfully. He shifted his hands, cupping her bottom, and pulled her closer to him, bringing her soft belly against his pelvis, her breasts against his chest, and then took her mouth all over again.

"Oh, God," Emma breathed into him as her mouth opened against his.

House left his hands on her ass, squeezing her, rocking her against him as he pressed his erection rhythmically into her stomach. They both groaned as their tongues mimicked penetration; as House fought valiantly not to come in his pants.

Emma pulled back fractionally, just enough to look him in the eyes. Hers were almost black, mirrored, House was sure, by his own. Her cheeks were flushed and her chest rose and fell against his as she panted. The brand new bruise on her clavicle sent a surge of blood though him and he pushed against her again.

"Best. Kissing. Ever," Emma breathed.

"Yeah." It certainly beat Lydia, House thought, but then tears and personal crises didn't necessarily enhance lovemaking.

Emma bit her lip again, in what House was learning was a nervous habit. "Um."

House took one hand from her ass and pushed back her asymmetrical hair – on the long side. "Um?" he prompted. He played with her hair, twisting the strands around one finger gently, amused by the way it was cropped so short above her other ear."By the way, next time, let your hairdresser borrow your glasses."

She snorted a laugh and then scrambled off him, her cheeks flushed red. His comment seemed to have broken the spell and she looked embarrassed. Her eyes flashed to the doorway and back, nervously. "Um . . . I don't know how far we can take this."

House felt a stab of irritation and frustration. But he was a grown up and he could control himself. Mostly. "How about second base and see what happens from there?" he countered.

She gave him a curious look. "What exactly is second base, anyway? I was never quite sure."

"First base is just kissing, hands over clothes. Third base is mutual masturbation. Second base is somewhere in between."

"That's still pretty vague."

"I get to touch your boobs."

Emma laughed nervously. "Really?"

"Yep. _Naked_ boobs. Second base is definitely bra-less."

"Ah." She looked uncertain.

"What's the matter?"

She sighed. "I don't want to over complicate this, but . . . I'm not taking you into my bedroom. That means whatever we do, we have to do on this sofa. That also means that whatever we do, we have to be prepared for Cammie-Cameron to walk in on. I'm not sure I'm ready for my son to even see me kissing someone, let alone topless in a man's arms. I just got a little . . . uh, carried away."

As if to reinforce her argument, the sounds of a squeaking alto sax drifted in from the other end of the house. It wasn't even vaguely recognizable as _Baker Street_, but at least the kid was trying.

House compressed his mouth into a thin line. "Gotcha," he said eventually. "Maybe you should move your hand then." He winked.

Emma looked down and her eyes widened when she realized where her hand was resting. Where it had oh-so-casually come to rest when she'd clamored off him. She yanked it away as if his zipper was a hot stove. "Oh! Sorry!"

"Not half as sorry as I am," he countered.

"No. I am. I mean, sorry." She shrugged and House was sure he could read disappointment in her face.

He stood up and stretched out, adjusting his jeans. The discussion had dampened his desire somewhat, but he was still uncomfortable.

"Are you leaving?" Emma asked.

House thought about it. He could go home now and take matters into his own hands. But that was going to happen whether he went home now or later. The decision was whether he wanted to go home now, take care of things and then lie in that wretched twin bed and stare at the ceiling until he felt tired, or stay with a gorgeous woman for a while and then go home and take care of things and fall asleep. "Not yet."

"Wanna watch a movie? I could make some popcorn."

"Sounds good."

Emma made a huge bowl of popcorn and they found one of the channels was showing _Speed_ and it had only just started. They sat side by side at first, but it didn't take long before they both stretched out and Emma ended up lying with her head against his chest and his arms around her. Every now then, she'd tilt her head up and they'd kiss, without the ardor of their earlier encounter, but it was still hot.

Somehow, House thought, this was just as amazing as their frenzied make-out session. It felt more intimate than any experience he'd shared with a woman for years. Funny, when you were a teenager, kissing and hugging seemed so basic and sex so sophisticated and complicated. And yet as an adult, it was often the other way around.

Half-way through the movie Emma went to the bathroom and came back with a stern expression on her face. "You gave me a hickey." She pointed to her shoulder.

"You didn't notice at the time?"

She rolled her eyes. "Boys," she muttered. But she climbed back on the sofa and pulled his arms around her.

-

* * *

-

House crept as quietly as he could back into his mother's place. Would this sense of feeling like a teenager never end? He felt like he was sneaking back home after an assignation with the girl next door. Which, in actual fact, he was. And he'd promised himself a little more teenage-style action once he got to his bedroom – Emma's groans and sighs as they kissed were etched in his memory to help him along.

_He'd given her a hickey_.

He chuckled to himself as he closed the back door quietly and flicked the lock.

"Crap!" He almost had a heart attack when he turned around and found his mother sitting at the kitchen table in the dark. "Mom!" His hand flew to his chest to try to hold his jumping heart inside.

His mother looked up at him, frowning at him. "Thomas?"

"No, it's Greg." House's burst of adrenaline was still pumping through him and he didn't fully process what his mother had called him.

"Greg. Right. Of course."

"What are you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep." She smiled up at him. Then shook her head. "You shouldn't have come here."

"What?"

"I told you not to come." Blythe got up and paced around the kitchen, twisting her misshapen hands together in distress. "John could come home any minute! Tommy, if he found you here . . ."

"Mom, it's okay. It's Greg. _Gregory_." House walked over and put a hand on her shoulder.

His mother covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. She gave him a tearful smile. "I know. I know. You want to see him. Okay. But quickly. Before John gets home."

House felt his stomach clench with fear.

"Come on. Quietly." His mother took his hand and led him into the living room. She leaned over the back of the sofa and adjusted the pillow on it in a strange way, almost stroking it. It took House a minute to recognize what the gesture reminded him of: a woman leaning over a crib, checking on a baby. "He's asleep," she whispered. "Come look." She took his hand again and pulled him to the edge of the sofa. Once he was there she put an arm around his waist and leaned her head against his chest, still looking down at the pillow on the sofa. "He's beautiful, isn't he?" she murmured.

Outside on the street, a car door slammed. His mother jumped and sprang away from him. "John's home!" she said in a furious whisper. "Oh, no, Tommy!" The stark terror and anguish on her face made House feel helpless and angry and scared all at once.

"Mom, it's okay. It's me, Greg." It didn't seem to help. "You're safe. Dad's – John's dead. Remember?"

"John's dead? When? How?" Now she was awash with a new grief. She turned away and let out a sob.

House grabbed his mother's shoulders and made her face him. "Mom, listen to me! It's two thousand and ten. I'm Greg!"

Something changed in his mother's eyes. She took in a deep, shaky breath. "Greg. Yes, of course." Her fingers picked at her nightgown as she straightened herself up. "Greg," she said again, as if to reassure herself.

"Yes, _Greg_. Are you okay?"

She patted him on the chest. "Of course I'm okay. Do you want me to make you some hot milk?"

"No, no hot milk. I'm fine." _Was she sleepwalking? _House guessed it could have been possible. But she hadn't just woken up. She'd just sort of _come to_.

She looked around herself and then down at the long nightgown she wore. "I think I'll go to bed," she said.

"Good idea," House said. He followed her down the corridor and into her bedroom. It was a room he hadn't seen yet but he wasn't surprised by it. A seventies-style bedroom furniture suite that would no doubt fetch a fortune in a store in a groovy neighborhood back home. Framed photograph of John House on the dresser. Some jars of cosmetics. A small collection of pill bottles. On the nightstand, a framed photo of himself and Stacy from the one and only time they'd met his parents as a couple.

"Are you going to tuck me in?" his mother asked, clearly surprised to find him following her into the room.

"Sure, why not?"

Blythe lifted the covers and stepped elegantly into bed. House bent over and helped her pull them up to her chin.

"Good night Mom."

"Good night, my darling," she said. She reached up to cup his cheek with her palm and gave him the kind of smile that House was quite sure he didn't want to see on his mother's face. Even less when it was directed at him. "He looks so much like you, Tommy."

"Go to sleep," he said. House waited until his mother closed her eyes before backing out of the room. He closed the door part-way and then stood outside, frozen. He'd completely dismissed Emma's concerns, managed to convince himself that she was wrong.

Sure there were little things he'd noticed, but they could all be chalked up to the forgetfulness of old age.

But mistaking her son for her lover?

That was less easy to explain away.

House made his way back to his twin bed. Any thoughts he'd had of entertaining himself with his hand down his pajamas while he pretended it belonged to the sexy girl-next-door had vanished.

What now?


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning it was easy to believe that House had imagined the whole thing. His mother greeted him with a kiss and an offer of a cooked breakfast, along with a gentle chiding on his late hour of awakening just as she had the day before.

Despite her scolding, this morning he was up far earlier than the day before. Yesterday she'd had the food mostly all prepared before he got up; today he got to watch her cook. And she seemed flustered by his observing. Did she remember last night?

House paid close attention as he watched his mother in the kitchen. A few things struck him. The way she hesitated when she opened a cupboard and then closed it again when whatever she'd expected to find inside wasn't there. The fact that she seemed to have lost the eggs, but finally located them under the sink. The scattered way she approached the task of cooking breakfast: she'd get halfway through making coffee and then stop to put on the eggs; when the eggs were almost cooked she remembered the bacon.

Once she'd set down the plate of food, House grabbed the paper and pencil he'd brought with him into the kitchen and pushed it in front of his mother.

"Mom? I want you to do me a favor."

"More coffee?"

"Sure. Then sit down. I want you to draw a clock."

"What?" Blythe topped up his coffee and filled a cup for herself. She sat down and frowned at the paper.

"Draw a clock. Start with a circle and the numbers from one to twelve."

"What's this all about?"

"It's a game. I'll tell you after you've done it."

Blythe didn't look happy, but she picked up the pencil and drew a shaky circle. "My fingers," she explained.

"Now the numbers."

She began writing the numbers inside the circle. It was almost painful to watch, not only for the swollen knuckles gripping the pencil, but the agonizing look of concentration on her face. Blythe wasn't stupid, she knew he was testing her somehow and she was determined not to fail.

Just as she began to write the number three, having so far got them all correct, if a little too compressed together – the three was closer to the twelve position than half-way to the six – the back door slammed open and shut again. "Hi," Cameron announced. He flopped down at the table next to House. "Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing," Blythe said. She quickly stood up. "Would you like some juice?"

"Yeah, thanks Blythe." He shifted, pushing his hair back from his eyes, and studied House. "So, Greg, I was thinking, maybe you'd like to come meet my band today? You could listen and tell us if we're any good. Maybe give Frankie a lesson?"

"I dunno kid, I don't think I'll be much help."

"Oh. Okay." His face dropped. "That's cool."

House could see the boy struggling not to let his disappointment show. It felt kind of _nice_ to be in demand. To be looked up to. Cameron wasn't about to criticize House's people skills, get down on him about his drug or alcohol usage, or complain that he wasn't looking after his mother properly.

"Go on Greg," his mother urged. "You can take half an hour to go watch Cammie. I'll pop over and help Emma with cleaning up from last night."

"I helped Emma clean up last night," House protested, although he hadn't really.

"Well then she and I can sit and have a quiet coffee together. Off you two boys go."

House didn't miss the fact that Blythe took the piece of paper, screwed it up, and threw it in the trash. Fine. He'd just get her to do it again later.

-

* * *

-

Cameron shoved his sax case in the back of the rental car and directed House to the band's rehearsal garage. House had extracted a promise that the kid would make his own way home and that House would only have to stay for a maximum of three songs before he was allowed to leave.

"Turn right here," Cameron said. "Are you gonna have sex with my Mom?"

House spluttered, not necessarily shocked by the question, just by the unexpected asking of it.

"Coz it's okay if you do. I mean, I'd be okay with it."

"Good to know," House said eventually, making the right turn.

"I think it would be good for my Mom to have someone. She hasn't ever really. I mean I know she's had sex, _obviously_, with my Dad, but not with anyone else."

_Interesting. But probably wrong._ "Moms are good at hiding things, kid. You don't know what your Mom's been up to."

"Nah, she hasn't. If she had, she wouldn't be so . . ."

The boy trailed off and House knew he should just leave it at that. Change the subject. Talk about the weather. Music. Movies. Put the radio on for chrissakes. "So _what_?" he asked instead. _Idiot._

"Uptight."

"Hmm." _That's it. Conversation over. _

"I mean, my girlfriend and I are gonna do it soon. This year. Before school's over."

House closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he still seemed to be trapped in a car in the middle of a conversation about sex with the teenage son of the woman he wanted to bang. _Damn._

"How old were you when you did it?"

"I don't remember," House hedged. Of course he did. Everyone did.

"I think fourteen's okay." It was almost, but not quite, a question.

"How old is the girl?"

"Tori? She's fourteen already."

"Just make sure you use a condom." It was too late now to pretend this wasn't happening.

"Duh. I'm not stupid." Cameron's matter-of-fact manner faded and House noticed him begin to fidget with the frayed threads around the knee of his black jeans. "Uh, can I ask you a question?"

"I have a feeling you're going to."

"I . . . I looked up this site on the internet and it tells you how to do it the first time, and it goes on a lot about how it can hurt for the girl. Tori's been telling me about her friends and how some of them said it was the most painful thing ever and she _still_ wants to do it. But . . . does it hurt for boys too?"

"Cameron, you should really be discussing this with your Mom."

"I will. I mean, I'll tell her about Tori and me. But how would she know what it's like for guys?"

Cameron's voice hadn't cracked once that day, House noted, he sounded grown up. And yet so _not_, at the same time. House realized that state, that feeling of being grown-up-but-not, had haunted him for his entire life. Somehow, whether because of what his dad had done to him or some innate inadequacy, House had never managed to leave childhood behind. He wondered if he'd never tried hard enough.

House sucked in a breath and let it out in a rush. "It doesn't hurt, Cam. It feels pretty good. But it always feels better if the girl enjoys it too. Does that website tell you how to make it good for her?"

"Yeah, it has some stuff."

"Well, do some research. Learn some anatomy. I can send you some links if you want – only don't tell your Mom. If you make it good for Tori, if you make an effort to help her have an orgasm, you'll be a legend and more girls will want to do it with you." He paused. "Uh, don't tell your Mom I said that, either."

Cameron nodded. "Yeah. Okay. Makes sense." He pointed straight ahead. "See that gas station? Turn right there and then it's the fourth house on the left."

-

* * *

-

House listened to the requisite three songs and then got out of the garage as fast as he could. The band was terrible, in that earnest, trying-too-hard way that teenage boys had perfected.

He gave them some advice, suggested a couple of old rock and ska songs that he thought might better suit their line-up of guitars, bass, keyboard, drums and sax than the pop they were trying to do. Frankie asked for some keyboard advice and House was again tempted to show off, but he'd recently been practicing a lot of classical music and he didn't think the boys would be all that impressed with a Chopin prelude. He was tempted to grab the guitarist's instrument and give them a little taste of the lightening-fast riff from AC/DC's _Thunderstruck_, his most recent guitar triumph, but there was always the awful chance the boys wouldn't recognize it, given they hadn't even been born when it had come out. So House refrained.

Cameron boasted about learning a _Geoff _Rafferty song and House knew better than to correct him in front of his band mates. The only good thing about the visit was that House could truthfully say Cameron had a measure of talent – he was the most musical one out of all of them.

After he left, House drove around for a while, aimless, not sure what to do with himself. He didn't want to go back to his mother, because he'd have to face the things he wasn't sure he was ready to face, despite attempting the dementia test that morning. His mother's avoidance of it spoke volumes.

He wouldn't have minded spending some time with Emma while her son was out of the way, but he couldn't really tell his mother to stay away so he could bonk her neighbor.

In the end he drove down to the harbor and parked. He watched the navy ships and the kids on skateboards and the parents with prams and wondered what he was doing with his life. He'd taken care of himself for so long, done everything by himself, handled all the little minutia of life on his own. Sure, he hadn't necessarily done a great job at times, but he was still alive and functioning and by many definitions, _successful_. And he'd done it all on his own.

Only that wasn't quite true. There had always been someone to look after him. His mother. Stacy. Wilson. Cuddy. Mayfield. For an independent person, he sure had a lot of dependencies.

Was that why he'd never had kids? Was the thought of being ultimately responsible – _caring for_ rather than _being cared for_ – too much for him to handle? Stacy had been ambivalent, she would have done it if he'd wanted to, was fine if he didn't. That was as much of a discussion as they'd had. He wondered if she ever regretted it – by the time she'd married Mark it would have been pretty much too late.

Despite the fact that his mother hadn't physically been around in a caring capacity for, well, _decades_ now, House was finding it very hard to adjust to the fact that their relationship was about to turn on its head. Parent cares for child. It shouldn't have to be the other way around.

He sighed and looked out at the water.

-

* * *

-

Emma made Blythe a coffee and then sat down at the table in the kitchen with her. She'd been hoping to spend some time out in her office, taking care of some invoices and other paperwork that had piled up during the week – Cameron's Sunday band practices were often a good opportunity for her to catch up. But then Blythe had appeared looking a little fragile, so Emma made herself smile at her elderly neighbor and pushed thoughts of work away.

"Do you and Greg have plans for today, Blythe?" Emma asked, taking a cookie from a plate she'd put out on the table.

Blythe shook her head. "No. We hadn't organized anything and then Cammie appeared, so they headed off. I guess we'll organize something when he gets back."

Emma smiled ruefully. Since Greg had pointed it out, she could now hear how silly "Cammie" sounded. "Actually Blythe, I'm going to try to stop calling Cameron Cammie."

"Why's that dear?"

"It's something Greg suggested. I'd used the name for so long I didn't even hear it anymore, but Greg made me realize that it sounds a little childish. Unfortunately at some point, I have to let my little boy grow up." Emma was surprised by tears that suddenly welled behind her eyes. She reached up and adjusted her glasses to try to hide it.

Blythe reached over and patted her hand. "It's hard to do, I know. I still struggle with it."

Emma blinked hard. "Oh, I'm being pathetic. Anyway, we'll try to call him Cameron from now on, okay?"

"Of course." Blythe gripped her cup and took a sip of her coffee and, as always, Emma suppressed a grimace at the older woman's swollen and angry-looking knuckles. If nothing else, she hoped Greg did talk to Blythe's doctor about the arthritis medication – surely there was something more that could be done.

"Did Greg say . . ." Blythe began, but then trailed off. She put her coffee cup down and picked at a few crumbs on the tablecloth, carefully putting them together in a pile.

"Did Greg say what?" Emma prompted.

Blythe swallowed hard. "Sometimes . . . sometimes I get confused."

Emma felt her stomach dip. "We all do," she said soothingly.

Blythe gave a tight smile. "Yes, I know. But . . . I think there might be something wrong with me." Her voice fell to a weak whisper. "Greg was giving me some kind of test this morning. I think he's noticed something. And I . . . I think he's right to be concerned."

_Finally,_ Emma thought with relief. "Have you spoken to him about it?"

"No, no. I don't want to worry him."

"He's your son. I'm sure it would worry him more if you didn't talk to him."

"But he's so busy. He has such an important job. He _saves lives_. He's famous around the world, you know. Dr Palfrey always likes to have a little joke at my expense." Blythe lowered her voice conspiratorially. "It's rude, but whenever I go to see him he calls me the _Virgin Mary_."

"What? Why?"

"Because I gave birth to the Jesus Christ of medicine."

Emma burst out laughing and Blythe started laughing too.

"Well, he certainly has the ego to go with it," Emma said, tipping up her glasses and wiping tears of laughter away with the back of her hand.

"It's all bluster, though, you know that. Don't you?" Blythe said.

"Some of it is," Emma agreed.

"He's still a little boy like Cammie on the inside."

Emma shrugged. "Aren't all men?"

"I guess so. That's why God invented women."

Emma gave one last chuckle and took a sip of her coffee. She didn't want to let this confessional spirit go without taking the opportunity to press Blythe to think more about her health.

"Blythe? If Greg is this world-famous doctor, then don't you think it would be a good idea to talk to him about your concerns?"

Blythe's good humor dropped in an instant and she went back to arranging the crumbs on the table. "It's not easy to talk to your son about these things."

"I really think you should talk to him about this."

Blythe narrowed her eyes. "You think there's something wrong too."

Emma felt the prick of tears returning. She didn't want to ruin this woman's life, but she also didn't want her getting hurt because she refused to acknowledge her frailty. "I've noticed a few things," Emma said gently. "Sometimes you do get a little confused and I worry about you. But maybe there's something that can be done. Greg might know of a cure, or something that can stop it from happening."

Blythe's expression showed she didn't believe that any more than Emma did.

"Blythe, you really need to talk to Greg about this," Emma urged.

"I know," Blythe said quietly.

"Do you . . . I mean, would it be easier if I was there? I could help, maybe explain some of the things I've noticed."

Blythe straightened up and put on a false smile. It was an expression that Emma had no doubt had stood her in good stead as a marine's wife for fifty years.

"Thank you dear, but I'll be fine. I'll talk to Greg."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

-

* * *

-

House pulled up the car outside his mother's place. He couldn't put it off any longer. His flight was booked for ten the next morning and if anything was going to get sorted out, it had to be today. He turned off the ignition and sat for a while, looking from his mother's house to Emma's next door. The ultra-neat lawn edges and carefully clipped roses were a contrast to the tangled bushes and slightly overgrown lawn of Emma's place. Not that Emma's place was unkempt, just more . . . relaxed.

House realized what one of the many unnameable emotions he had towards Cameron was: _jealousy_. He knew which yard he'd rather grow up in, and it was definitely the one where an experiment on rotting meat could go unnoticed for days. He could just imagine what kind of punishment the colonel would have doled out for an infraction like that. All Cameron got was gentle chiding from his mother who was concerned about it making him sick. Not fair.

He got out of the car and before he realized it, found himself knocking on Emma's door. Without waiting, he opened it and called out her name.

"In the kitchen!"

When he walked through to the kitchen at the back of the house he found Emma and his mother sitting at the table with coffee and cookies. The look on both women's faces gave him a feeling he'd walked in on something. "Couldn't find you at home, so I figured you'd be here," he lied to his mother, wondering why he bothered. He guessed he just didn't want her to know that he'd chosen Emma's place first.

"How was Cammie, I mean Cameron's band practice?" Blythe asked.

"Ear-splittingly awful," House replied honestly.

"They are, aren't they?" Emma said, fussing with the empty coffee mugs on the table. "Thank God Frankie's parents let them rehearse over there. I couldn't stand it."

House noticed she hadn't looked at him. Was she embarrassed about last night? House couldn't see why. It had all ended pleasantly and sedately: she kissed him goodbye at the back door and he'd gone home. Not a single piece of clothing had been dislodged, let alone removed.

"Yeah, but Cameron's the best of the lot," House offered. "He's talented."

That won him a warm smile and eye contact from Emma. "I'm glad to hear that," she said. "I'll remember it when that saxophone is squawking at me."

"Emma's very talented too," Blythe said.

Emma shrugged and looked embarrassed.

Blythe nudged Emma. "You should show Greg your paintings."

"Greg doesn't want to see my paintings," Emma protested. "He came here to see you."

"I could take a look. Would round out my morning – music critic to art critic." _Anything that avoided him being alone again with his Mom. _

Blythe stood up. "That's decided then. You look at Emma's paintings. I'll go home and do my housework and then, when Cammie's back, the four of us can go out for lunch. We can go to that Japanese restaurant and Greg can tell Cammie what it's like to live in Japan. My treat."

"Crowded and fishy," House muttered.

Emma frowned and stood up too. "Blythe, I thought you and Greg were going to spend some time together? _Talk?_"

House knew he was missing something.

"We can talk later," Blythe said dismissively. "I'm going to clean the bathroom."

"The bathroom's fine, Mom." Whether it was there or not, House felt the statement as an accusation of his messiness. His father had always been on about how much mess he created when he visited. It was yet another good reason not to do so.

"That's because I clean it," Blythe snapped back. "I'll see you two later."

House and Emma were silent, watching Blythe as she walked through the backyard and then disappeared in the gap in the fence.

"What was that about?" House asked after a moment.

Emma sighed. "Your Mom admitted to me that she's worried about her mental state."

Despite himself, despite the fact that he didn't want to acknowledge it, House was hurt that his mother had confessed to her neighbor instead of him.

"I told her to talk to you about it," Emma said.

"Funny, I said the same thing to your son. Different subject though."

"What?" she asked sharply.

"Just that you need to talk to your son about a few things or get your grandma pants ready."

"He talked to you about _sex_?" Emma gasped. "But we've talked . . . I've told him . . ." she spluttered.

House felt bad for baiting her. And for betraying Cameron. _Damn_. This whole weekend had been filled with too many emotions for House's comfort. He held up a placating hand. "Aw, don't worry about it. He's a smart kid. He's not going to do anything stupid, he just wanted some_ guy_ input."

Emma sagged. "I try so hard to be open. And to make sure he has male role models around. But it's difficult to . . ."

House had no idea what to say, so he stepped forward and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. Emma stopped talking and leaned against him, stiff at first, but eventually she relaxed and splayed her hands open over his back. Today she was wearing a black-and-white draped dress and red leggings that matched the red of her glasses. The material of the dress was fine and silky and House could easily feel the swells of her breasts where they connected with his body.

"Life sucks sometimes," Emma murmured against his chest.

House made a general noise of agreement.

"I feel so sorry for your Mom. You battle through raising a kid, moving around all the time, then losing your husband, only to start losing your mind. It's not fair."

House had worked that one out a long time ago.

"Show me your paintings," he suggested, nudging Emma as she leaned against him.

She pulled back and gave him a sad smile. "Okay."

Emma led the way out to the shed House had noticed in the yard and unlocked the padlock on the door. It was dark inside, but was filled with light in a moment as Emma flicked on lights and pulled the curtains back from the window.

"Whoa." House was surprised – from the outside, the building looked like a typical garage-type structure, but inside they could have been in an office at Princeton Plainsboro. The walls were plastered and painted, a large desk held a Mac with a huge monitor, and reams of paper were spread over it. One wall was taken up by a bookcase filled mostly with over-sized books stacked horizontally, the other long wall had a few acrylic nude portraits hanging on it and a couple of tacked-up posters of landmarks from around the world. On that side of the room the carpeted floor was draped with a paint-spattered tarpaulin and an easel stood with a cloth draped over it. A tiny sink and coffee maker finished off the space. "Impressive."

"It's home," Emma shrugged. "And I kind of mean that literally. I spend a lot of time here."

House wandered over to the desk. He moved a couple of sheets of paper back and forward.

Emma peered over his shoulder. "That's my latest project – the annual report for a local manufacturer. Not exactly fascinating reading, but they paid for a decent photographer this year, so that makes my job easier."

House could see it was a typical financial report, like the dozens he received from his stock investments. Only it had an indefinable quality – more color, more life, more _something_. "I like it, it's quirky."

Emma blushed. "Thanks. Actually I hear that word a lot when people look at my designs."

House turned to the portraits on the wall. "And you really do paint naked men."

"I paint naked women too," Emma said.

"Well why didn't you say?" House said with a leer. "Show me."

Emma grabbed a stack of small canvasses and spread them out on the floor against the wall. House took his time looking at each one. He was torn between wanting to make a smart-mouthed quip and the desperately needed praise he could see behind Emma's pathetic attempts to look casual.

"The men are better than the women," he said finally, choosing to go the serious route.

Emma sighed and pushed her glasses up on her nose. "Yes, that's what my art teacher says too."

"I like this one." He pointed to a male nude standing side-on looking over his shoulder. The model's back and buttocks were clearly defined, genitals only just visible, his face on profile. "Is that the same guy as in these two?"

"Yeah, he volunteers for our class a lot."

"Nice body." House felt a stab of envy – the model, one Emma obviously spent a lot of time looking at – had an athlete's figure, lithe, but toned and sinewy. A runner rather than a weight-lifter. The kind of body House himself had once had – a hundred years ago.

"Yeah I guess it is. You sort of stop noticing after a while – trying to concentrate on light and shade and brush technique kind of gets in the way of thinking, 'nice package'."

"It is a nice package, though." House pointed his cane at one of the paintings that showed the model sitting with legs apart, his generous endowment clearly on show. "Objectively speaking."

Emma gave a small laugh. "I guess a guy wouldn't volunteer to model unless he was proud of what he had. Women are less judgmental about things like that."

"So I see." The female portraits were of a woman who would generously be termed "Rubenesque", but that wasn't the problem – it was her butt-ugly face that House found objectionable. "Maybe you just need a better looking woman to make your pictures better."

"Greg!" Emma shook her head.

"What's that one?" House pointed at a canvas that Emma had left mostly hidden. He bent down and moved it so it was fully on display. It showed a woman – a different woman to the one in the other paintings – standing, part of her body hidden behind some undefined object. Her face was shadowed, but that only served to emphasize the curves of her body: full, slightly pendulous breasts, a sharp indentation at her waist, rounded hips tapering into slim legs.

House frowned as he studied it.

"Do you like it?" Emma asked slipping closer to him. Her hand found his and she interlaced their fingers.

House squeezed her hand and turned to look at her. He gave her an assessing look from top to toe. "Very much," he said.

Emma's slow smile made his heart speed up and House pulled on her hand, urging her closer. This time his kiss was on target, even if he had closed his eyes. Tentative at first, he brushed her mouth with his, gently nipping at her lips, taking in the softness of her hand in his, the gentle puff of her breath against his face, her fresh, citrusy scent.

"Mom!" Cameron's voice carried from the house and was quickly followed by the back door slamming shut.

"Exactly how fond are you of your son?" House asked, stepping back as Emma released his hand. "Because I could arrange to have him taken care of."

"Mom, I'm hungry! Can we—" Cameron appeared in the office and stopped when he saw House and his mother standing a few feet apart, clearly looking like they'd been interrupted. "Oh, hi Greg."

"There's fruit in the house," Emma said calmly.

"No, I'm _really_ hungry. It's lunchtime."

Emma checked her watch. "I suppose by the time we get organized and get over there." She sighed. "Okay. Go over and tell Blythe we're ready for lunch – the four of us are going to go to the Japanese restaurant down by the wharf."

"Cool." He disappeared again in a streak of black.

Emma gave House a rueful smile. "Maybe we just have to accept it's not meant to be."

"Nah. I kind of like being sprung. Makes me feel young."

"Yeah, it's great fun," Emma said sarcastically. "We just need your mother to walk in on us having sex."

"We'd actually have to have sex for that to happen."

"Hmm. You're right. Only, I'm not sure if I remember how."

House raised an eyebrow. "No wonder your male portraits are better than the female ones. You're horny."

Emma gave him a look of righteous indignation. "I am not!"

"Sure?"

"Certainly not."

He waggled his eyebrows. "I am."

"What?" Now her expression held a faint trace of panic.

"And I've only seen you naked in a painting. At your art class, you have to look at that dude naked in the flesh. You're gaggin' for it."

Emma laughed uncomfortably.

Switching gears instantly, House walked over to one of the posters on the wall. "Neuschwanstein," he said, pointing at a poster of a fairytale-like castle.

"That's right. This is my travel wall."

"Ever been there?"

Emma shook her head. "No, but one day I will. I like the picture. I imagine the scenery must be spectacular."

"Not to mention the fact that it's a triumph of design over common sense."

"You've been?"

House nodded. "King Ludwig almost bankrupted his country building it. It's pretty but pointless."

"Sometimes being pretty is the point," Emma said.

"Why thank you," House said, batting his eyelids as if she'd complimented him.

"Oh, you're a pain," Emma said, swatting his chest.

He caught her hand and held it against him, her fingers resting over his heart.

House lowered his voice. "Admit it, you want me."

He watched Emma's eyes darken behind the bright red frames of her glasses. She moistened her lips nervously, but didn't drop her gaze from his. "I want you." Her voice was a whisper.

Satisfied with himself, House put a hand on her waist, stroking her belly with his thumb. "How long til Cameron gets back?" he asked.

"Two minutes. If that."

"So maybe we do have time for sex?"

"I'm not that forgetful!"

"Damn."

They both chuckled.

"Mom! Mom!"

House rolled his eyes, but Emma took a step towards the door, her face creased with a frown. "Cam?"

Cameron raced into Emma's studio, his eyes streaming tears. "Mom!"

"Honey, what's wrong?" Emma flew towards him, arms outstretched.

Geez, don't _cry_, kid, House thought, cringing. Whatever it is, it's not _that_ bad. There was more than an echo of John House in his head.

"It's Blythe." Cameron was wheezing but not sobbing. His breath caught and he coughed.

"What?" House stepped forward.

Cameron wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking rapidly. "She fainted or passed out or something. I tried to help her but she wouldn't wake up. There's this really strong smell in the bath—"

House didn't hear the rest of it, he was out the door and racing for the gap in the fence.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thanks everyone for your lovely reviews. I'm sorry I haven't been able to reply personally as I would usually like to do, but I'm traveling right now and time is short. I figure you'd probably prefer I posted a chapter than spent my time on replying . . . But please don't let that stop you doing your usual marvelous job. :)

-

* * *

House raced for his mother's place, limping and lurching wildly. His t-shirt caught and tore as he brushed against the splintery fence, but he didn't notice. Vaguely he was aware of Emma and Cameron behind him. Somewhere around the back door he threw away his cane, and he was still a long way from the bathroom when he realized what the problem was. _Smelled_ what the problem was.

"Cameron stay outside," he yelled. "Call 911 and get an ambulance. Emma, take a deep breath, hold it and follow me."

House sucked in a breath and made his way into the tiny bathroom. His mother was lying on the floor, a gash over one eyebrow bleeding profusely. He could see blood on the side of the bath from where she'd hit her head when she'd collapsed. Lying in the bath was a tipped-over tub of drain cleaner and a mostly empty half-gallon container of bleach.

Gesturing to Emma, the two of them struggled to grab Blythe. It took longer than House could hold his breath, and both he and Emma ended up gasping in the foul-smelling air. Breathing as shallowly as he could, House half-dragged, half carried his mother out of the bathroom, with Emma struggling to help. In the hallway, Emma gasped for breath and began coughing. House's own lungs were burning with the need to cough and his eyes stung. "Outside!" he ordered.

He and Emma wrestled with Blythe's dead weight, but finally managed to make their way out through the kitchen and into the backyard. Cameron was out there bent over double, coughing. "I called – they're coming," he managed to say between coughs.

House had no idea how he'd managed to lift his mother, but by the time they'd laid her down on the grass, his eyes were streaming, lungs burning, and his leg was killing him. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees, coughing and dragging in deep breaths of air.

Emma sat down on the grass next to Blythe, coughing. "Blythe?" she said raggedly, shaking his mother's shoulder.

"Is she breathing?" House asked. He sank down on his knees next to both women.

"I don't know!" Emma sounded frantic.

House checked Blythe's pulse and forced himself to stop coughing so he could listen for respiration. "She's breathing," he said, knowing it was too soon to be relieved about that. The cut on her head was superficial, House was glad to see, and the blood was already beginning to clot.

As soon as House finished speaking, Emma struggled to stand up and walked over to her son. "Cameron?" Are you okay?"

Cameron didn't answer, instead he turned and vomited into the garden bed.

"Greg? What happened?" Emma asked, her voice panicked as she stroked Cameron's back.

"Mom made mustard gas, basically," House wheezed, not bothering to explain any further. He looked around for a tap, thinking they needed to wash out their eyes, but the wail of a siren came in the distance and he figured it was better to wait until the paramedics arrived with saline. "Cameron, sit down and try to breathe slowly. You too, Emma. Don't rub your eyes and try not to cough."

The next half hour was chaos. Paramedics arrived and attended to Blythe and Cameron – the worst affected. All of them were put on oxygen and, while House and Emma insisted they could walk, Blythe and Cameron were stretchered and rushed to the hospital, Cameron and Emma in one ambulance, House and his mother in the other. House watched out of the window as they pulled away and saw the fire department arrive to take care of the spill in the bathroom. He hoped someone might remember to lock up.

At the hospital, an unconscious Blythe's head was stitched as House mutely watched on. Although she was breathing on her own, she was intubated as a precaution and transferred to ICU. Chlorine inhalation – like smoke inhalation – could cause delayed pulmonary edema and as they had no idea how long Blythe had been exposed to the toxic gas, it was entirely possible it could still occur. House followed, somewhat in shock, ensured she was properly settled and then returned to the ER.

Cameron was propped up in bed with a nebulizer. Emma sat next to him, pale and shivering, occasionally breathing from an oxygen mask that sat on the arm of the chair next to her.

When she looked over and saw him standing there she jumped out of the chair and ran over to him. "Is Blythe okay?"

He nodded. "For now. Unconscious. She'll need to be monitored closely for twenty-four hours though. Her lungs could still be affected. How's Cameron?"

"They think he's fine. He says he wasn't in there long – just long enough to find her, try to help, realize that he couldn't, and then get out of there to come and find us. It's made his asthma play up a bit, that's why they have him on the nebulizer."

House looked over at the kid. He was pale, but not cyanotic. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, his eyes closed.

"How are you?" he asked Emma quietly.

"Terrified," she said. Her voice broke in a little sob and she collapsed against him.

House didn't feel capable of comforting anyone. He wanted to someone to cuddle _him_ and tell _him_ it was all going to be alright. But there was no one to do that.

"It's going to be okay," he said, pressing his mouth to Emma's hair. He kissed her crown and then did it again, just because he could. "He'll be fine." Funny, but as he reached up to stroke Emma's hair he noticed there was a strange sense of reassurance to be had from comforting another person. Maybe he was beginning to see exactly what it was that Wilson jonesed over. He felt Emma's ragged breathing slow down as she tried to bring herself under control. After a moment he led her back to the chairs next to Cameron's bed, and helped her sit down. He took the seat next to her, slouching down into it, exhausted.

"Do you know what happened?" Emma asked quietly. "Did Blythe mix some chemicals? Or was it something from the sewer?"

House shrugged. "She mixed drain cleaner with bleach – it's a dangerous combination that creates chlorine gas." He paused. That was something his mother must have known."It could have been an accident."

Emma gave him a doubtful look. "Or she might have mixed things up."

House nodded. It was what he thought too. Clearly she'd got confused somehow. He wondered if he should have done something about his mother's condition earlier, but anything short of having had her instantly committed into full-time care wouldn't have avoided this. He waited for Emma to yell at him for not believing her, for not doing something sooner about his senile mother. After all, her "confusion" had injured Emma's son. But it didn't come. "Want some?" was all she asked. House laughed quietly when she handed him the oxygen mask. He took in a deep breath. His lungs weren't burning any more, but they felt irritated, as if he wanted to cough. He held down the impulse, knowing it was better not to.

"How are you health-wise?" he asked Emma, lowering the mask. "How's your breathing?"

"Fine. I got the same exposure as you. I'm a little tickly, but nothing I can't handle. The oxygen helps, though."

Emma managed a grim smile before her gaze went back to Cameron. She looked close to tears again and seeing her expression hurt House like a physical ache. He sucked in another deep breath of oxygen and leaned over to Emma and leered at her, clasping the mask to his face, making his eyes go wide and crazy-looking. "_Baby wants Blue Velvet_," he gasped.

Emma's head whipped around to stare at him, her eyes wide. "You did not just say that."

House did another Dennis Hopper parody. He covered his face with the mask, sucked hard on it and then leered at her. "Mommy? Mommy? Baby wants Blue Velvet. Baby wants to f—"

"Do _not_ finished that quote! Shush!" Emma hushed a furious whisper.

House laughed.

Emma's mouth twitched. "We're in a _hospital_!" she protested.

House was relieved to see that the tears had vanished from her eyes. "So? I spend most of my life in one."

"And you say things like that?"

"Well . . ." House shrugged.

Emma shook her head, but she chuckled and House felt immeasurably and unreasonably better. "I hated that movie anyway," she said eventually. Her hand snuck over the arm of the chair to grab his. And for a while House was content to sit there, in a noisy ER, holding Emma's hand and sharing an oxygen mask with her.

-

* * *

-

By the time it got dark, Emma was exhausted. The chaos of the day, added to the stress of seeing her little boy in hospital, had drained her completely. Greg had been quiet, but occasionally she'd seen a glimpse of the man he must have been in his other life back in Princeton – a quick instruction to the nurse to change something to do with Cam's medication, a hushed and serious conversation, full of jargon, with the doctor who'd come to report on Blythe's condition.

Cameron had fallen asleep a while ago. And Greg had disappeared a few minutes earlier to find out when Cameron was going to be released from the ER. Emma curled up in the chair and prepared herself for an uncomfortable night.

"Hey." Greg's soft voice woke her, and Emma realized she'd dozed off. His hand stroked her hair as she blinked up at him standing over her. It was a disarmingly touching gesture from him – a man who really was virtually a stranger – and Emma found it immensely comforting. She wanted to keep dozing, feeling him nearby, and pretend nothing else mattered.

"I've spoken to Cameron's doctor and Mom's," he said, breaking the spell.

"Any update?" Emma said, coming instantly awake.

"No change with Mom, which is actually a very good thing. Cameron's fine. They just want to keep him on the nebulizer for a while and monitor him, but it's just a precaution. Unfortunately the kid's going to be blaring that sax again soon enough."

Emma nodded and swallowed hard. The relief was overwhelming.

"Once they transfer Cameron into pediatrics for the night, we should go home. You need to get some sleep."

Emma shook her head. "I can't leave."

"They have my pager number and my cell phone. If there's the slightest change in Mom's condition, I've left orders to call me immediately. As for Cameron – he's just gonna sleep through the night. As long as you get here first thing in the morning when he wakes up, he'll be fine."

Emma shook her head again, unsure if her voice would work. As much as she had her ups and downs with Cameron, he was her life, her soul, her very reason for breathing . . .

A nurse and a couple of orderlies appeared a few moments later and Emma followed them as they took Cameron up to the pediatric floor. He didn't even stir, just slept peacefully, looking so young and so much like the little baby she remembered. His room had one other child in it, also sleeping, and a single chair that looked even less comfortable than the one in the ER – if that was possible. Emma went and stood next to her son's bed, watching over him as the nurse reattached the breathing mask and re-settled the pillows under Cameron's head.

That movement woke up him.

"Mom?"

"Cameron." Emma bent over and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Blech." Cameron wiped her kiss away. He pulled the mask from his face. "Where am I?"

"They moved you to the children's floor. They want you to stay overnight just to make sure your asthma doesn't play up again."

"I'm in the kid section?" Cameron sounded aggrieved. "Geez."

Emma let out a relieved laugh. If which department in the hospital he'd been assigned to was his biggest problem, she had an easier time believing what Greg had said – that her son was going to be perfectly fine.

At that moment, Greg appeared next to her. He was using a crutch to help himself walk – belatedly Emma realized his cane must have still been lying in the yard at Blythe's. At that thought, Emma let out a groan.

"What?" Greg asked.

"We left the house – everything was wide open. My office, the back door to my place, the back door to your mother's place." She grimaced. "My office," she said again. She was insured, but if thieves or vandals – or curious neighborhood teens – got inside, it could easily spell the end of her business.

"The fire department were there," Greg said. "Maybe they thought to close things up."

Emma shook her head. "I can't risk—"

"I'll go," Greg said. "You stay here and I'll go back and check on things, lock up."

Emma was speechless, stunned by the novel feeling of having someone else offer to take care of things.

"Mom, you don't have to stay. I'm not a baby," Cameron said.

"No, I'll stay with you tonight," Emma said firmly.

"You look like crap," Cameron said in his blunt way.

"Thanks very much," Emma replied.

"You should go," Cameron said again. "What if they get in the house? They'll take the X-box for sure."

"Nice priorities, kid," Greg said from beside her. Emma didn't fail to notice that even though Cameron was continuously protesting his adulthood, he didn't seem to have a problem with Greg calling him "kid".

"That guy doesn't have his mom sleeping next to him," Cameron pointed to the other bed. "And he looks way sicker than me."

Cameron was being a pain, which made Emma think he probably was as healthy as all the medical professionals were insisting he was. And the thought of her office having been sitting there, open, all day, was sending tendrils of dread through her. Even if Greg did go and lock up, he wouldn't necessarily notice if anything had already been taken, if it was already too late. Not to mention the fact that she was shattered and sleeping in a chair for the night held little appeal.

"Are you sure?" she said eventually, stabs of guilt hitting her from all sides just at the very thought of abandoning her son in a hospital overnight.

Cameron didn't answer her. Instead he tilted his head to look at the man standing next to her. "Greg? Look after my Mom, okay?"

"Sure thing kid," Greg answered.

Emma swallowed back the tears that had been threatening all day and reached down to hug her son. This time he let her and didn't make any disgusted noise of protest. In fact, his scrawny arm went around her and he hugged her back. It was almost enough to make her lose it on the spot.

"I love you so much, Cammie," she said, allowing herself to use the baby name just this one more time.

"Don't go in my room," he replied.

Emma laughed and pulled back.

Greg took her hand and, with one last kiss on Cameron's forehead, Emma let herself be led towards the door.

"I mean it!" Cameron called out when they reached the doorway. "Don't touch my stuff!"

Despite her desperation to get home, Emma insisted that they visit Blythe before leaving. The woman looked tiny, dwarfed by the bed and all the machinery around her. Emma was horrified, she looked close to death, but Greg didn't seem overly concerned.

"She's on a _ventilator!_" Emma whispered.

Greg frowned. "I told you they'd intubated her."

Emma gave him a helpless look. She'd watched her share of hospital drama, but hadn't made the link between what he'd said and the fact that a machine would be breathing for Blythe.

"It's not that serious. She _can_ breathe," Greg explained. "They'll take her off it tomorrow assuming her condition stays the same."

"But, why?"

"If the chlorine causes swelling in her trac—throat, they won't be able to get a tube in. So it's better to do it now to be on the safe side and make sure she's getting plenty of air into her lungs."

"Oh." Emma still couldn't believe he sounded so matter-of-fact.

"They keep her sedated so she's more comfortable." He walked to the end of the bed and picked up the chart that was hanging there. He quickly reviewed the top page and then replaced it. "Her sats haven't changed."

Emma gave him a "please explain" look.

He sighed. "The amount of oxygen in her blood. It's good, and it's staying that way. That's an excellent sign. She'll make a full recovery."

"Don't you want to stay here with her?" Emma asked quietly.

He shrugged. "She's going to be unconscious until tomorrow. They're going to page me if there's any edema – that's swelling." He stood still for a moment, staring at his mother. Then he moved to the head of the bed and bent over and pressed a kiss to Blythe's forehead. "Good night, Mom," he said quietly. Then he straightened up, an embarrassed look on his face, and gestured to Emma. "Come on, let's go."

Emma could barely keep up with his long-legged strides as the stalked through the hospital corridors, headed outside and climbed into a cab. He held her hand as they sat silently on the ride home, each lost in their own thoughts.

As the cab drew closer to her house, Emma found her tension spiraling higher. What if someone had already stolen her computer? She fought to remember the last time she'd run a complete backup. Not recently enough. Besides which, the external hard drive that was her back up was in the top drawer of her desk. Unlocked. Dumb. She needed to rethink that.

Greg paid for the cab and as he was handing over the bills Emma jumped out. "You check your Mom's, I'm going to my office," she said, heading off without waiting for him to reply. She dodged the front door and went straight down the side of the house into the backyard. It took a moment for her to work out what was wrong, but when she did, she froze.

Lights were on in both the house and her office.

The sound of the television was clearly audible.

She was too late . . .

"Mrs Porter?" A young man in army fatigues appeared, shadowed by the back door.

Emma just managed to muffle a scream. "Who are you?" she asked instead, her voice a shriek.

"Emma!" Greg's panicked voice called a moment before he appeared around the side of the house. "Are you okay? You idiot! Running back here when there could be—"

"It's okay, it's okay." The guy stepped from her house into the yard, holding up his hands. "Colonel Wright sent me to watch over your place until you got back."

Greg reached her and Emma had to suppress a smile when he stepped in front of her and pushed her behind him. Tall as he was, he was clearly no match for the young, buff marine he was trying to protect her from.

"I'm Lieutenant Matthew Brookes," the guy continued, "my Second Lieutenant, Brad Avery, is next door taking care of Colonel House's place."

Emma put a hand on Greg's shoulder and stepped out from behind him.

"But how did you . . ?" she asked.

"The neighbor on the other side, Captain Benfer, the one who takes care of Mrs House's garden, called my CO, Colonel Wright, when he found out what happened. Colonel Wright and Colonel House served together."

Greg muttered something beside her, but Emma didn't catch it. "So everything's fine?" she asked, still not trusting her eyes.

"Yes ma'am. We got here before the fire department left. I didn't want to lock up anything until you arrived, because I wasn't sure if you had your keys, but I turned on all the lights and I've been keeping watch. No one has been past except for one of your neighbors who wanted to know if I had any update on Mrs House. Is she going to be okay?"

"She'll be fine," Greg said, his voice surly.

"Thank you so much, Lieutenant Brookes," Emma said, rushing forward to grasp the guy's hand. "And please pass on my thanks to Colonel Wright."

The marine didn't say anything, just shook her hand and gave her a polite nod.

"I'm so relieved." Emma let out a huge breath and walked over to her office. She stuck her head inside, just to reassure herself that everything really _was_ okay and was grateful to find that it looked just as messy and full as when she'd run out of there at lunchtime. The keys were resting on the desk, where she'd left them, and after pulling the curtains shut and turning off the light, she locked the door.

Greg and the marine were still standing in her yard, silent.

"Well, if everything's okay ma'am, I'll go next door and check on Avery. Do you happen to have a spare key or anything, so we could lock up Mrs House's place?"

"Yes I—"

"It's okay, I'll take care of it," Greg interrupted.

"Sir?"

"I'm Gregory House," he said.

"Oh." Clearly the marine was surprised, but he covered it fast. "Of course." He gave House another of those spare, military nods. "Your father had quite the reputation. Good man. I was sad to hear of his passing."

Greg rolled his eyes, a gesture that surprised Emma, but she knew now wasn't the time to ask questions.

The three of them walked over to Blythe's house through the fence and Brookes introduced Emma and Greg to Second Lieutenant Avery. Both men were like poster boys for the marines – tall, muscular, chiseled jaws, immaculately polite. If she hadn't been so tired, Emma would have been paying close attention so as to try to sketch them later.

"The fire department cleaned out the bathroom. They left a little mess behind, but otherwise everything seems fine. We found Mrs House's cane out in the yard," Avery offered. "It's in the living room."

"That'll be mine, actually," Greg said bitterly. He disappeared into the living room and didn't come back, leaving Emma with the two marines. Once again she thanked them profusely, suggested they come back some day for coffee with her and Blythe, and saw them out the front door.

After they left, she returned to the living room to find Greg standing staring at one of the House family portraits on the wall, his face like thunder.

Emma walked over to him, but didn't reach out to him. She sighed, but he stayed silent. Her very bones ached from the storm of emotion she'd been through the past few hours.

She straightened her shoulders and composed her face. "My dad walked out on me, my Mom and my brother when I was seven," Emma said, her voice neutral. "He wrote me letters saying he'd bought a ranch, that he'd bought me ponies, that soon he would come and get me and take me to the ranch and teach me to ride and let me buy whatever I wanted. Every Christmas I waited for him. He never turned up. I later found out he died in a shelter when I was about fifteen. Then I married a marine – a man who was never home. And my husband cheated on me when Cameron was a toddler. While we were separated, trying to work on our marriage, he went to Afghanistan and got himself killed." Emma took a deep breath. "I've got some serious _daddy_ issues. Care to share yours?"

He turned to look at her, his expression hard to read. "Not really," he said eventually.

"Fine. Now, are you staying here tonight? Or do you want me to lock up and you come over to my place?"

"Your place," he said, still sullen.

"Right, well, come on then."

-

* * *

**A/N:** The Denis Hopper movie House is quoting is called "Blue Velvet", a David Lynch movie which also stars Isabella Rossellini. If you haven't seen it -- read the Wikipedia entry before you race to your Netflix list.


	7. Chapter 7

Emma's admission about her past had surprised House. Enough to jolt him out of his own grim thoughts and memories. He followed Emma through his mother's house as she checked the front door was locked and inspected the mess in the bathroom. Then they went out through the back, switching off the lights and locking the door as they went. Without speaking, they climbed through the fence and headed for Emma's living room.

"Want a drink?"

House very much wanted a drink. He was always suspicious of himself when he felt this kind of clawing need for something, but he was growing more confident in his ability to stop himself when it was time to. "Yes, please," he said.

Emma disappeared for a while, but then, to his surprise, appeared with a bottle of bourbon. "I think it's a little past wine, don't you?" she said. "I've put some hotdogs on for us – sorry, best I can do."

House shrugged. He looked at his watch, surprised to find it was only just before eight. His stomach growled as if just remembering that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. "Sounds good," he said. Now that he realized he was hungry, anything would do. He stared at his watch while Emma poured them each generous measures of whisky. "I guess I won't be catching my ten am flight tomorrow," House muttered.

"No, I don't think so."

"I'd better go make a couple of calls." At Emma's nod, House headed out into the yard and made a brief call to Wilson. Wilson expressed concern, of course, and faintly disbelieving praise that House was staying on longer to sort things out. That made House feel uncomfortable, because he certainly wasn't deserving of any praise, and had absolutely no idea how to even begin to go about "sorting things out".

"All okay?" Emma asked when he returned. She'd put on some music and was sitting curled up on the sofa.

"Yep, just had to call my roommate."

"You have a roommate?"

"It's a long story. He's also a doctor at the hospital, so he's going to make nice with my boss."

"Surely there's no need to 'make nice'? You've got a perfectly legitimate excuse for missing work."

"Yeah, I guess."

"What did you tell him?"

"That my mother tried to poison the neighborhood with cleaning chemicals and that she's in hospital while I'm about to have sex with a gorgeous blonde with red glasses and a funny haircut."

Emma's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't leave my son alone in hospital so I could come home and have sex with you!"

"I know. But it is a good opportunity, isn't it?"

She made an irritated noise, but didn't actually say "no", so House figured that was a good sign.

He sat down on the sofa next to her and picked up his bourbon, sniffing the fumes before taking a small sip. He wondered if there was a chance of sex with Emma. She had invited him to her place, but perhaps that was just a need for comfort more than anything else. House got that. Still, being prepared for potential sex was worth taking it easy on the booze.

A moment later Emma leaned against him, and House shifted to put his arm around her shoulder. She snuggled in closer, her head resting on his chest, and they sat in silence for a while.

"So, daddy issues, huh?" House said eventually. "Want me to spank you and call you 'little girl'?"

He felt her body shake with a laugh before he heard it. "Hmm. Do I have to call you 'Daddy'?"

"Nah. 'Sir' would do fine."

Emma laughed again.

"No? How about 'Your Highness'?"

"Stop it," she said, giving him a light swat.

"'_The shiz_' would be okay too."

"Enough."

They fell silent again and House stared at the blank TV screen and multiple little lights shining from all the electronic equipment housed beneath it. The music she'd put on was some bland chill-out compilation, but it was innocuous enough.

"When will you go back to Princeton?" Emma asked.

House paused before answering. Her tone was deliberately light, but he could feel the slight tenseness in her body. He could lie, he could make up some bullshit story about what the future might hold, he could even make himself believe it if he tried hard enough. But Mayfield, and Lydia, and life, was teaching him that the only sure thing was the moment, and that to be happy – to _not be miserable_ – the only thing to do was to make the most of the moments you had.

"Probably a couple more days," he said eventually. "I'll wait 'til Mom is doing better and I can talk to her about organizing some kind of care for her. She can't deny what's going on after this."

Emma nodded. She got up and came back with hotdogs, bread and ketchup which they ate without speaking. Once they finished Emma curled up on the sofa again and House put an arm around her shoulders when she switched on the TV.

They watched some documentary about birds in silence, until Emma twisted around in his arms and sat up so she was facing him. She studied him, her eyes flicking over him before settling on his own. House noted they were still slightly bloodshot from the chemicals. "Um." She swallowed nervously.

"Yes," he said, nodding, feeling that he knew what she was about to say.

"Cameron's dad . . ." she said, biting her lip with her front teeth.

House nodded again. "I get it." The kid had been right. House was surprised, but not shocked. He'd never gone a decade without sex, but he'd certainly gone without for long periods – measured in years. He understood how it could happen.

Emma gave him a nervous, but grateful smile.

They stood up and House let her lead him into her bedroom. It was a vast contrast to Cameron's dark and stinky den – white and pretty without being girly; soft and feminine; and it smelled lovely. Not sickly sweet with perfume, just fresh and clean and somehow welcoming. Emma turned on just a single lamp and the room was bathed in a gentle glow.

They stood near the bed and House let Emma undo his shirt buttons and he helped her slip his t-shirt over his head. He toed off his sneakers, hoping his feet didn't stink too much. Just in case, he reached down to peel off his own socks, throwing them into a corner, balancing himself carefully against the post of the bed frame.

Emma reached under her dress and pulled off her red leggings, stripping them off as elegantly as House figured it was possible to do with a garment like that. He already knew from hugging her that she was only wearing a bra under that dress and that it was a lacy one – he'd been able to feel the texture of it through the thin black fabric. Emma had left her glasses in the living room. Standing there, barefoot and wide-eyed, in her black-and-white dress and weird hacked-out haircut, she looked like some Dickensian orphan and House was again struck by a strange protective instinct.

Her hands went to his belt buckle, and House helped her undo it. He left her to manage the snap and zipper on his jeans herself – her fluttering fingers were a joy to feel against his hardening shaft. Once undone, the jeans fell with a clunk to the floor, leaving him in his grey cotton boxer briefs. If he'd known this was what the day had held that morning, he'd have chosen the ones without the hole along the side seam, but it was too late now.

He took Emma's dress in his hands and lifted it. In response, Emma raised her arms above her head and House happily removed it for her. He dropped it on the floor and soaked in the sight in front of him: her pale body was trim but not skinny; the hourglass shape of her figure even more defined now – outlined by the glow of the lamp behind – than it had been in her self-portrait. Her black lacy bra was translucent enough to reveal the darker tips of her nipples, and her plain black cotton panties were utilitarian, perhaps not the lacy thong that he might have preferred to have revealed, but then his own underwear wasn't exactly Calvin Klein model material so he figured he couldn't get too judgmental about that. Besides, there was a very real part of his brain that was simply chanting "a girl's gonna touch my penis!" and her choice of underwear didn't really matter at that level.

Emma stood on tiptoe and tilted her head up to his. House was happy to comply and, resting his hands gently on her waist, he lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss. Although they'd started badly, they seem to have now mastered the skill of kissing each other, and this embrace was hot and passionate and House felt himself stirring even more firmly in the right direction. He ran his hands up and down her sides, over her ribs and the sides of her bra, before changing direction and drifting down, skating over her hip bones, loving the distinct feel of her curves as her body dipped and swelled. Emma shivered.

House pulled away from her mouth and sat down on the bed, his legs spread, pulling her arm so she stood in front of him between his knees. He let his fingers flutter over her belly, spreading them wide as he trailed up to her ribcage, feeling her gasp in a deep breath as his fingertips brushed the lower curves of her breasts. But instead of going higher and cupping her, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her stomach, just above her navel, as his hands reached behind to undo her bra.

House fiddled with the catch – the bra had two hooks, not just one – and he was finding it tricky to release. He remembered being a teenager and stealing one of his mother's bras from the washing basket and tying it around a pillow to practice taking it off without looking. It was a technique one of his friends at school had recommended. His mother's bra had been the trickiest he'd ever had to undo – not one, not two, but _three_ hooks, and made from some kind of unyielding fabric that felt like sailcloth. It had stood him in good stead: after practicing with that bra, any other had seemed a snap in comparison.

Except this one.

Clearly he was out of practice.

He wondered if Cameron had been practicing on Emma's underwear. This particular bra would be a good one to chose, House thought distractedly, as he finally got it loose and gently trailed the straps down her arms.

The moment of Emma's breasts finally being revealed should have been one of bliss, but it was completely ruined because House's brain continued to think about Cameron. He went back to the conversation they'd had in the car, thinking that he should have mentioned the bra thing to the kid, and as he replayed the discussion in his brain he came to a sudden realization.

House closed his eyes and groaned in despair, dropping his hands from where they were poised to touch her.

"What? What's wrong?"

He opened his eyes to find that Emma's face had flushed beet red and she'd wrapped her arms around her breasts to cover herself. He winced as he realized she'd misinterpreted his groan of disappointment. "No, no, you're gorgeous," he said, taking her wrists and pulling her arms away to reveal her full, lush mounds. To reinforce his words, he pressed a light kiss on the top of each breast. "I just realized I don't have any condoms." Another idea occurred to him. "I don't suppose you're on the pill?" he asked, looking up at her. He deliberately brushed his prickly chin against her nipple and made her gasp. "I promise you I have a clean bill of health." He used to carry a rubber in his wallet. He'd used it with Lydia and never bothered to replace it. Never figured, in all honesty, that he'd need to.

Emma shook her head. "No, not on the pill and it's not a good time to chance it." Then she smiled. "Wait. Wait here." She turned away and disappeared out of the room, her arms going back around her to shield herself again. House figured she must feel strange walking around almost naked – he guessed she didn't do that when Cameron was home.

She reappeared a moment later. "I can't believe I just stole contraception from my son," she said with a lopsided grin, holding up a couple of foil packets.

House breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad you did."

"We have to replace them so he doesn't notice."

House shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not. "C'mere."

With the practicalities taken care of, House was eager to move things along. He shifted across the bed and beckoned Emma to join him. She quickly obeyed, moving over to lie out next to him, side by side. They kissed again and, as the kiss deepened, House felt Emma throw her leg over him. He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him until she was almost lying on top of him. The heavy softness of her body pressed over him was immensely pleasurable, and House felt anchored, secured, safe. He ran his hands over her back and down to her ass, hooking his thumbs into the sides of her panties. She wriggled to help him and together they pushed them off. Emma repeated the move on him, and then they were naked.

"Oh God," Emma sighed, her breathy voice washing over him. "This is good. I feel so . . ." she trailed off.

Her words prompted another flashback to House's conversation with Cameron. The fact that the kid kept popping up in his mind was really starting to annoy him, although this time it was a useful distraction. At that point all he wanted to do was move Emma over him and thrust up into her until he came – which wouldn't take long. But his own advice to the teenager came back to haunt him.

House twisted and flipped Emma over until she was beneath him. He lowered his mouth to her breasts, lower and softer now that they weren't constrained by her bra, and trailed his lips from one tip to the other. His hand traced a path from her shoulder down her body until he reached the apex of her thighs. He brushed lightly over the curls there and Emma arched her back and groaned, her legs parting in invitation.

"Please," she murmured and House complied. He played her diligently, stroking methodically until he could tell which touches worked best. And then he let himself have the pleasure of tasting and teasing her breasts and raspberry pink nipples, kissing, licking, sucking, rubbing them with his beard. He kept it up until Emma arched and shuddered, crying out in a strange sound that was half a sob and half a groan of joy.

She lay still for a while, breathing heavily, one hand fisted convulsively in the pillow above her head, the other clutching his wrist, holding his hand against her body, motionless, but still providing her with pressure. He could feel the little aftershock contractions of her orgasm as they pulsed through her.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her mouth sought his and they kissed; House could taste salt, but he chose to believe it was perspiration.

Emma broke away from him and twisted to the nightstand, grabbing one of the foil packets. She opened it with her teeth, but then handed the disc it contained to him. He usually liked a woman to do that for him, but he was becoming increasingly impatient and so he quickly dressed himself. Despite the work involved, Emma's orgasm had been erotic to watch, and he wanted one for himself now.

"How?" she asked.

House liked that despite the fact that they both enjoyed talking, in making love they'd been reduced to few words – he'd never been someone who enjoyed a lot of talking in bed. As she asked her question, Emma glanced at his leg, and House realized it was the first time she'd paid any attention to it. He didn't answer, instead he shifted over her and settled himself between her thighs. Missionary usually wasn't great for his leg, but tonight it was what he wanted. Emma moved to adjust to him and reached between them to guide him into her.

That first sinking in to a woman's body was a magical moment, House had always thought. He took it slowly, eyes closed, dragging out the pleasure, feeling himself encompassed by her wet warmth inch by inch. "Oh yeah," he groaned once he was fully seated.

He felt Emma wriggle beneath him, adjusting the angle of her hips, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He opened his eyes and was surprised by the slightly panicked look on her face. "What?"

"I feel like you're in my throat," she said with a weak laugh.

"Oh, sorry." House began to pull out.

Emma's fingers tightened on his shoulders again. "No, no, there. Stay there."

She'd stopped him about halfway, and House stilled, pausing for a moment to let her adjust. The urge to thrust was just about killing him, and the protest from his balls became more violent with every passing second, but he held on.

Then Emma began to move, pushing her hips up to take him a little deeper, then pulling away again. House picked up the rhythm and they began to move, slowly and gently at first, faster and harder as they each wound up tighter and tighter.

Her hands moved over his back, stroking and clutching, finally coming to rest on his ass, squeezing his cheeks and ever so slightly digging in with her nails. "Harder," he said, and she gripped him tighter and her fingernails pinched. He groaned.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice little more than an exhale.

"Yes," he replied, stronger, picking up the pace.

Rational thought fled as his primitive brain took over, pumping into her over and over until he flew apart, a guttural cry shocking him with its loudness as his control snapped and his body convulsed, pulses of bliss flooding through him with each release. Still shuddering as he came down from the peak, he remembered to pull out and collapsed at Emma's side, breathing hard.

"Oh God," she said, gasping.

Had she come again? He didn't think so. He swallowed, his mouth dry from panting, and turned on his side, his hand seeking her apex again. She didn't stop him, instead she let her thighs fall open and welcomed his fingers into her heat. A moment later she seized up and cried out, and House felt her muscles constrict around his fingers as she climaxed.

He fell back onto the bed and they lay side by side, both struggling for breath.

Then, after a minute of silence filled only with the sounds of their heavy breathing, Emma began to laugh.

"What?" House asked between pants.

"Nothing," she said, but her laughter continued. Then she said, "You are so _not_ the boy next door. And yet you actually are." Her giggles out all over again.

It was contagious, and House felt himself smiling, and then a bubble of laughter welled up and burst inside him.

They laughed for a while; genuine, happy laughter, not cynical, bitter laughter, and House wondered how long it had been since he'd genuinely felt this way, not pretended it for the benefit of others.

Eventually their giggles died away and House remembered the condom, now a cool, wet and sticky mess. He rolled to the side and grabbed tissues from the box on the nightstand and took care of it. When he rolled back, Emma snuggled up to him, her shoulder level with his ear, too high for him to put his arm around her. Instead she put her arm across his chest and pulled his cheek to her breast. He could still feel her body trembling slightly. House felt a little like a child, but it was a strangely comforting feeling and without analyzing it any further he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

-

* * *

-

Emma woke up feeling fuzzy. Her eyes were gritty and it took a couple of rubs before she could bring them into focus. She blinked at the clock on the nightstand and found it was still early, not quite six. The events of the day before came back in a rush, but despite her overwhelming rush to go to Cameron she rationalized that it was too early to go in to the hospital.

The man lying next to her was snoring deeply and it was testament to how tired Emma had been that she'd slept through the noise. She nudged him firmly and he snorted, smacked his mouth, muttered "sorry", and then rolled over on to his side away from her and fell straight back to sleep. At some point, some woman had trained him well.

Emma couldn't go back to sleep, so she lay staring up at the ceiling, watching as the room grew imperceptibly lighter bit by bit. She took in the feeling of the sheets against her naked body – it had been a long time since she'd slept without pajamas or a t-shirt at least. It was almost too warm in the bed; she'd forgotten how much heat there was from having another body next to you. The room smelled of sweat and musk and that faint almond scent that together reeked of sex.

Sex, she thought. She'd done it. She'd really had sex again. And, well, it hadn't been too bad. Actually, it had been pretty good. After Cameron's father she'd been too busy and too betrayed and too messed up to bother trying to find someone and then, when all of that was behind her, somehow it just hadn't been important. Besides which, she had a son and a house and a business to run. It didn't leave much room for anything else. Experimentally she stretched out and felt a few twangs from muscles that hadn't been used that way for a decade. There was something about the way you had to spread your legs for a man to get between them that no yoga pose could prepare you for. She felt a little sore too, although he'd been reasonably gentle once she'd asked him to back off.

A moment later the bed moved and Greg shuffled around to face her. He gave her a gentle kick in the shins. "Do you have to _think_ so loud? No one can sleep with that racket going on." His voice was deep and gravelly and sent a shiver through her.

"Sorry," Emma said automatically, still lying looking up at the ceiling.

He sighed.

"Is it too early to go into the hospital?" she asked after a moment, already knowing the answer.

"Yes." He yawned extravagantly. "But let's go anyway."

At that Emma turned her head towards him. His face was lined with sleep, but his eyes were almost startlingly bright. "Really?" she asked. She'd expected him to protest.

"Well it's not like you're going to go back to sleep. Or offer to have morning sex with me." He reached out under the covers and put a hand over her right breast, squeezing it. "Or am I wrong there?"

Emma gave him a fleeting smile. "Nah. Not wrong. I don't think I'd be able to concentrate this morning."

His hand fell away. "Figured."

"It's Monday morning," Emma said, thinking aloud. Her brain ran through all the things she needed to do. It felt strange to think that battling to get Cameron out of bed and dressed for school wasn't going to be one of them this morning.

"That it is," Greg said, yawning again.

"I want to go to the hospital," Emma said again.

"Go, shower," he said. "I'll go after you – I've got to go over to Mom's to get some clean clothes."

"Okay. The keys are out on the kitchen counter," Emma said. She wondered why he hadn't moved and then wondered if he didn't want her to see him naked. He seemed pretty protective of his injured leg. Despite everything, Emma hadn't really noticed it last night and she had to admit she was curious. Still, she understood.

Impulsively she pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and then clambered out of bed. She could easily have used another of those long, drugging kisses, but she knew her morning breath wasn't great, and given his snoring, she'd bet his was worse. Not to mention the fact that it could just be enough to distract her from the reason she was awake so early. She felt a stab from her old friend, mommy guilt. Prioritizing sex over her son in hospital? She must be a monster.

Emma showered quickly and returned to the bedroom to dress. Greg was nowhere to be seen, so once she'd donned jeans and a black tunic top she headed into the kitchen to make coffee. Just as she was pouring herself a bowl of muesli he reappeared, fully dressed, his hair damp.

"I showered over there," he said. "Thought it would be faster. The bathroom's fine now, just filthy and with a faint stink of swimming pools."

She gave him a smile of thanks and pushed a cup of coffee towards him that he accepted gratefully.

They ate a quick breakfast together, mostly in silence, occasionally chatting about something inconsequential. Emma brushed her teeth, packed a clean set of clothes for Cameron, grabbed her purse and then they were standing at the front door, about to leave the house. It was still only around seven.

Emma knew that once she stepped outside everything would be different. She put a hand on Greg's arm. "Wait," she said.

He had been about to open the door, but he stopped and looked at her curiously.

She gave him a nervous smile, not sure why she felt the need to do this, but knowing at the same time that she had to. "Thank you," she said her voice a shaky whisper.

He gave her a crooked smile in return. "Welcome," he said and shrugged one shoulder.

Emma nodded and they walked out of the house.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** If you think it's been a while since you've seen a chapter, you might want to go back and check that you haven't missed anything. A couple of readers have mentioned to me that they didn't receive a chapter notification for the last chapter (7).

-

* * *

At the hospital, House let Emma go check on Cameron while he went to check on his mother. He was surprised to find that not only had she been extubated, but she was conscious, sitting up and chatting brightly to a nurse.

"Mom?" he said.

"Darling!" Her face lit up and she held out her arms to him. He bent down and let her embrace him, feeling through the thin hospital gown how fragile she felt.

"You must be feeling better," he said, stating the obvious. House had so many emotions running through him, relief, anger, sadness, resentment, melancholy, he couldn't begin to work out which one to go with.

"Oh pish, I'm fine. A lot of fuss over nothing."

House refrained from mentioning the fact that she'd had to have a machine breathe for her for the past eighteen hours because she'd poisoned herself and almost half the neighborhood. Or from reminding her about the bold shiner that now decorated her right eye socket below the patch that concealed the four stitches in her forehead.

"Vitals?" House asked the nurse who was fiddling with Blythe's IV line.

He figured his mother must have told the nurse her son was a doctor, because the nurse didn't blink at the request. "Sats are perfect. Blood pressure's still a little high, but it's come down. Everything else seems good."

House nodded, but checked the chart as well, just to be sure. The nurse had been accurate and, remarkably, his mother's oxygen levels had been stable throughout the night. "When did they extubate?"

"During the night. There was no sign of edema and her stats were excellent, so the duty doctor felt it was wise."

House took the seat next to the bed. "Discharge orders?" he asked. He half wanted his mother out of there as soon as possible, but half wanted her to stay forever – while she was there, she was effectively someone else's responsibility.

"She's being moved out of ICU this morning, but you'll have to speak to the attending."

For the next few minutes his mother chatted away about inconsequential things, but House could see a shadow behind the chirpy façade. It reminded him uncomfortably of family dinners after his father had meted out some punishment or other to him. Then the three of them had had to sit down to eat like a happy family. House would be sullen and withdrawn – sometimes even in pain – and his father would be stubbornly silent. Blythe would chatter inanely as if everything was right with the world. It wasn't.

An orderly appeared and served breakfast; the nurse hurried over to help his mother to sit up and avoid getting tangled in the IV lines. They had her on IV nutrition, House noticed, and he thought it was a good idea.

About five minutes later Emma appeared looking hassled.

"Everything okay with Cameron?" House asked.

She waved a hand. "He's fine. Just being a pain in the ass. I wanted to help him shower and get dressed but he threw a tantrum. He's tired and grumpy and behaving like a three-year-old while protesting that I should treat him like an adult." She rolled her eyes, but House could tell the exasperated gesture covered some hurt. "So I figured I'd leave him to it and come up and see you." She let out a quick breath and then turned to smile at Blythe. "You look very well Blythe, I'm so relieved!" She leaned over and gave the older woman a hug.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Blythe said, but House noticed she'd become a little stiff and awkward.

"I see you've got your breakfast," Emma continued, propping herself carefully on the end of the bed near Blythe's feet. "Cameron couldn't wait to complain about his food. Demanded I go to McDonalds and get him an egg muffin. And a billion hashbrowns, of course."

His mother gave a weak laugh. "That boy does love his hashbrowns."

"He does. And I'm just glad enough he's okay that he's probably going to get whatever he wants today," Emma said with a smile.

As Emma spoke, the ICU nurse sidled over to House. "Dr House, have you ever had your mother tested for dementia?" she asked in an undertone.

House bristled. He knew what was going on, he didn't need yet another well-intentioned stranger telling him what to do. "Yes,I know," he said between gritted teeth, only because he didn't want to get into it, and he didn't want to cause a scene in front of Emma and his mother.

The nurse nodded. "Okay. Good. I just noticed her plate, that's all," she said as she walked off.

House looked over at his mother's breakfast. He'd noticed over the weekend that she didn't eat a lot, he hadn't thought much about it. But now he looked down and could clearly see that she'd methodically cleared just the right-hand side of her plate. The other side was still full.

"Are you not hungry Mom?" he asked. He stood up next to the bed, beside Emma.

"I'm fine dear," Blythe replied.

House reached over and twisted the plate around a hundred-and-eighty degrees.

"It's a very nice breakfast for hospital food," his mother said, picking up her fork and beginning to eat the eggs that must have, to her, just miraculously appeared.

That was the moment when it clicked. House felt reality finally sink in. His mother was losing her mind. Soon she'd forget who he was. She'd forget who _she _was. Based on what happened yesterday, she was probably already unable to care for herself – soon she wouldn't even be able to speak, feed herself, wash, go to the toilet . . . He swallowed hard.

Emma's hand slipped into his and she squeezed his fingers.

Suddenly he had to get out of there.

"Mom, I'll come back and see you when you're settled on the other floor, okay?"

Blythe looked up from her breakfast and frowned. "Sure, dear. Is everything okay?"

"I have to make some calls. Work," he lied. His mother didn't even notice, which somehow made it worse.

"Fine. My son's an important doctor, you know," she said to Emma.

Emma gave her a sad, patient smile. "Is he? You must be very proud."

House turned on his heel and stormed out, weaving his way through unfamiliar corridors until at last he found a door that led outside. It was a smoker's balcony, dirty and tired-looking, providing a view over a motorway that was filled with annoyed Monday-morning drivers stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. House shared their sense of frustration and futility.

"Are you okay?" Emma's voice asked gently behind him. He hadn't even heard her follow him.

"I'm fine."

"You'll get through this. You'll work it out," she said.

He shook his head. "I can't look after her. Apart from the fact that I'd probably kill her with an overdose of morphine after three days in her company, I can't _practically_ do it. My work is unpredictable, I work long hours, and I'm wealthy, but I can't afford not to work. I don't _want _to give up my work. Besides, moving her to Princeton would be cruel – all her friends are here, all her—" he broke off and corrected himself, "all _Dad's_ work buddies who look after her." He thought back to the marines who'd turned up to help the day before.

"So, we look into options here," Emma suggested. "There are plenty of things to investigate. There might be aged care options we can look into with the military. We should talk to the hospital while she's here about what they suggest."

House noticed her using the word "we". For no good reason, it angered him. he turned on her. "What's all this 'we' business?" House spat. Anger was clean and easy. He understood anger. "Why do you even care? She could have killed your son – with his asthma, if he'd been in that bathroom for longer, if he'd passed out and lay there breathing in that gas until we'd found them, he could have died. Why don't you hate her?"

Emma blinked at him. "It wasn't her fault. I don't hate her," she said quietly. "And neither do you."

House felt like hitting something but instead he turned and stalked away, only the small balcony made the gesture somewhat impotent when he reached the guard rail after only two steps. "Leave me alone," he muttered.

After a moment he heard the door open and close.

House paced around the tiny balcony, getting more wound up with every circuit. Emma didn't appear to be concerned that Blythe had hurt Cameron – had almost _killed_ him – but House was. He liked the stupid kid. It was Blythe's fault, she'd mixed up the chemicals, she'd made the mistake. It wasn't fair that the boy should have to pay for that. _She_ was the adult, she should have been protecting him, watching out for him, making sure that nothing . . .

House groaned.

Was he really that much of a cliché?

Unfortunately the realization didn't do anything to lower his anger levels. And he knew that he couldn't keep avoiding his mother – he had to do something about the situation unless he wanted to stay in Norfolk indefinitely. House wrenched open the balcony door and stormed his way out of the hospital. People got out of his way, the thunder on his face gave a definitive "steer clear" message. When he reached the car he fumbled around for his iPod in the glove compartment. Once he found it, he set it to the Chopin prelude he'd been working on and reclined the drivers' seat. He closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate on the music, his fingers moving over his thighs almost without conscious permission. He breathed.

-

* * *

-

An hour later House found his mother on the geriatrics floor. She wasn't looking as bright as she had been earlier and House could see why. She was in a room with three other women, all old and frail. One was sleeping, copious amounts of drool visible over her chin, another was quietly talking to herself, the other lay in bed, occasionally groaning in pain.

"Greg," she said, and her voice held relief.

"Hi Mom."

"Thank you for visiting me."

House shrugged.

Blythe sucked in a deep breath. "Is the boy . . . the one next door . . ." She grimaced with frustration.

"You mean Cameron?" House supplied.

"Cameron." She sighed. "Yes. Is he okay? Really? She . . . she . . ." Blythe waved a hand, irritated and upset.

"Emma," House said.

"Yes. She said he was but . . ."

House nodded. "He's fine."

Blythe choked back a sob and House was shocked. He'd never seen his mother cry. Not even at his father's funeral. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"It's okay," he said although even he could hear that he didn't believe it.

"She . . . Emma said there was a mix-up of chemicals."

House nodded. "You accidentally mixed bleach with drain cleaner with ammonia in it. That made chlorine gas – and it made you faint. Do you remember?"

Blythe looked close to tears again. "I was mixing something, but I couldn't remember why. And then I thought I was . . ." she trailed off.

"What?" House pressed.

She shook her head. "Oh, I get so confused these days. I thought I was making a cake. And I poured one container into the other, but that's all I remember."

House shook his head. It was amazing she hadn't killed herself. She couldn't have been unconscious for long before Cameron found her. Thank God teenage boys had bottomless pits for stomachs and he'd needed to eat. Otherwise it could have been too late.

Then again, House couldn't help thinking, that might not have been entirely a bad thing.

He sat down on the chair next to her. "Mom, you were really lucky this time. And it was lucky that Cameron wasn't more seriously injured. I think we need to talk about what you should do once you leave hospital. About where you should live."

"I don't want to go into a home!"

His mother's voice was so loud the couple who'd come in to visit the groaning patient looked across. They sent him sympathetic looks.

House felt out of his depth. He had no idea how to manage his mother. She'd always been the one managing him. "I know you don't. But you don't want to hurt yourself again, do you?"

Blythe shook her head. She was becoming hysterical. "Your father and I have lived in that home for almost ten years together. I'm not leaving!"

House sighed at her present-tense reference to his father. "Mom? What if you do something that hurts someone else? Cameron? Or Emma? You could set your house on fire and the fire could burn down their place too. How would you feel if something like that happened?"

Blythe began to sob. "Why are you being so mean to me?" she cried.

House was actually proud of how rational and reasonable he'd been. He was half-wishing Wilson was there to watch – his friend would hardly believe that House was capable of this kind of sincerity. Especially given he was still churning up inside. "I'm not being mean to you." He tried hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

"You are. You and Greg are always mean to me." She cried harder, but it somehow wasn't adult crying. It was the crying of a little lost girl and just as heartbreaking.

_You and Greg? _Who did she think he was today? "Mom, calm down," House said, starting to feel uncomfortable about the scene they were making.

"Who will cook your breakfast?" she asked.

That made no sense. "Come on, Mom," House pleaded.

Blythe sniffed and her face turned hard. "That bitch Stacy won't cook your breakfast. She wouldn't even give you a baby. Selfish woman. I won't get any grandchildren because she won't stop working long enough."

House blinked in surprise at that. He knew that sometimes dementia patients could get nasty and aggressive, but he'd never expected it from his mother. He'd never heart his mother swear even mildly, let alone use the word "bitch".

A nurse came over, a bunch of tissues in her hand. "Now, now, what's going on here? We can't be having people all upset on Monday morning." She wiped his mother's face. "Come on, cheer up."

That just seemed to upset his mother more. "I hate being here," she said.

House shrugged. So did he.

The nurse gave him a tight smile. "I understand you're her son and you're a doctor?"

He nodded.

"Well, as you probably know, this isn't unexpected. Trauma and a change to the routine tends to exacerbate dementia."

"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here," Blythe demanded.

The nurse gave her a bland smile. "I'm just telling your son that it's normal for you to feel a bit confused because you had a big upset yesterday."

Blythe frowned but seemed to accept that.

"I think we might give you a pill to help you calm down and get a little more sleep," the nurse suggested. "You must be very tired."

"Yes, I've been very busy," Blythe said, sniffing and shuffling around. She took the extra tissues the nurse had left and blew her nose.

His mother fell silent when the nurse disappeared and she obediently swallowed the pill she was given when the nurse reappeared twenty minutes later. House checked the dose and discovered with relief that whoever was on call had prescribed enough Valium to keep her asleep until the evening.

"I'm going to go home Mom, while you sleep."

"Can you check the mailbox?" she asked.

"Why?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"Because I want to make sure it doesn't look like no-one's home."

Fair enough. "Oh, okay."

"You'll come back later though, won't you John?"

House cringed. He much preferred being mistaken for Tommy than John. But he just patted his mother's hand. "Yes, I'll come back later."

-

* * *

-

House left his mother and went to find Emma and Cameron. They were sitting up on the bed in Cameron's room waiting for the doctor to sign the release form so Cameron could be discharged. Both of them were scowling.

"Hey," House said. He didn't feel like company, but he didn't feel like being alone either, so he guessed he'd just foist himself on the two of them. He wondered how much Emma was regretting moving into the house next door to the Houses.

Both woman and boy brightened up when they saw him walk into the room. That was nice. It helped soothe the raw feelings he'd been left with after the time with his mother.

"How's Blythe?" Emma asked.

House grimaced. "She's fine, but she's not very coherent today."

Emma gave him a sad smile. "I'm sorry."

"Greg?" Cameron asked. "Did you see the bathroom again? Did the gas like eat away at the paint and stuff? Is it all gory in there?"

House shook his head. "Nope. Unfortunately it just looks just as ugly as it always did. Only with lots of black footprints from the fire department's boots."

Cameron looked disappointed.

"As soon as Cameron gets discharged, we're going home," Emma said. "Are you going to stay with your Mom?"

House shook his head. "No, they gave her something to sleep. I thought I'd go make a start on investigating . . . _options._"

Emma nodded.

"What's taking so long?" Cameron asked.

"I'll find out." House stalked off and managed to browbeat the nurse unit manager into finding a doctor to sign Cameron's discharge papers.

An hour later they were back at Emma's house, having detoured to McDonalds on the way where all three of them had placed a copious order including an egg muffin and a huge number of hashbrowns for Cameron. They ate in the kitchen, in silence, and then Emma and Cameron had a fight about whether or not Cameron could spend the whole day playing X-box. Cameron won.

Emma disappeared while House was still finishing off his thickshake, and then reappeared with a mop, bucket and rubber gloves.

"I figured I'd go over and clean up the bathroom," she said.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"I called my client. We built enough fat into the production schedule that a day or two's delay won't hurt."

House realized that the fact that she wasn't working would be costing her money. He wondered how he could repay her for everything - he knew she wouldn't accept any financial recompense, but he wondered if there was anything else he could do.

He mutely followed her into the backyard and through into his mother's house, watching while she filled the bucket with water and detergent. "I figured I'd just go with soap to clean up, in case there's any residue," she said.

"Good idea." House was certain that the fire department had got rid of all traces of the chemicals, but it didn't hurt to be careful.

"Why don't you go next door and see Captain Benfer while I clean up? Thank him for contacting Colonel Wright?"

House grunted. He didn't really want to do that. "He probably won't be home."

Emma shrugged. "Maybe not, but he's retired and seems to spend all his time in the garden, so it's worth a try. He used to be good friends with your dad. I don't know him very well, but I know he grew up here and he might have some suggestions to make about care options."

House pursed his lips. "Yeah. I guess." He felt strange and restless from the morning with his mother, and it felt weird to be in her house without her. So he watched Emma for a little longer, taking note of the economical way she moved around, not to mention how flattering her jeans were, and then he headed next door.

-

* * *

-

Emma worked up a sweat cleaning the bathroom.

It was healthy, helped relieve her swirling emotions and, once the bathroom was done, she moved through the rest of the house, wiping surfaces and mopping any hard floors she could find. She was just starting in the kitchen when Greg reappeared. She looked at her watch – he'd been gone for more than half an hour.

"How'd you go?" she asked, pushing a sweaty tendril of hair back from her face. She felt a great sense of self-satisfaction about the clean and tidy rooms behind her.

"Actually, he was really good." He looked surprised and held up a handful of leaflets. "He'd been thinking along similar lines and has already done some research. We went through it together and he's going to make some calls this afternoon."

Emma couldn't help feeling that it was a little rough to put the burden for making the calls onto the neighbor, but that seemed to be Greg's M.O. "That's good. I'm glad." And she was.

Greg leaned against the kitchen table and looked at her, a smile playing about his lips.

"What?" she asked.

"I'm just thinking of my favorite game," he said, eyeing the mop in her hands.

"Huh?"

"The lord and the naughty maidservant. Ever heard of it?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "You really do want me to call you sir, don't you?"

"Actually in this game it's _sire_. So it plays into your daddy fantasies too." He stood up and walked around until he was standing behind her.

Emma stood still. She could feel him, his heat, so close to her but not touching. It was maddeningly arousing. She wondered how she could have gone from cleaning the toilet to throbbing with sensual arousal in just a few minutes.

His breath was warm against her neck as his arms went around her and his hands gently cupped her breasts. He found her nipples through the lace of her bra and fabric of her shirt and rolled them between his thumb and forefinger. Emma felt her knees go weak. "You can lose the gloves though," he said. "The gloves make me wonder if you're going to ask me to bend over and cough."

Emma laughed but the laugh turned into a groan when his touches became more forceful. She blinked slowly, feeling dreamy, vaguely taking in Blythe's kitchen around her, the shiny green grass of the yard out the window, the gap in the fence that joined this house to hers. "Cameron might come over," she said, but her voice held little real protest. Her body, already warm and sweaty, was growing increasingly hot. The pulse between her legs was almost painful in its intensity.

"What was he doing when we left?" Greg whispered, his mouth close to her ear, but again touching her only with his breath.

"Playing X-box." She got his point. Aliens could land in the yard and Cameron wouldn't notice. "We don't have a condom," she said, feeling the need for one last objection.

His right hand left her breast and a moment later there was a rustling noise and a foil square landed on the kitchen table nearby. "Grabbed it this morning in case an opportunity presented itself."

Emma could feel herself swaying, she wondered absently if she was in danger of falling over. His right hand rose to her neck and pulled back her hair. His fingers on her breast squeezed her nipple hard just as his mouth made contact with the sensitive skin under her ear. "Oh God." Emma thought she might just faint. She leaned back into him, reaching behind her to touch him somehow. The movement reminded her that she still wore the rubber gloves and she quickly stripped them off.

Things happened quickly then. He spun her around and their mouths met. He tasted vaguely of chocolate from the McDonalds thickshake and he smelled of something that Emma couldn't identify but wanted to bury her nose in all the same.

He backed her into the table and pulled her tunic top over her head. He didn't bother with removing her bra, just pushed the lace cups down until he could access her nipples. He lowered his head to suck on them.

Emma undid her jeans and pushed them down along with her panties. Once they reached her knees he put his hands on her waist and hoisted her up on to the table before leaning down and gently removing each of her slip-on shoes and then stripping the denim and panties away. His mouth sought hers again and they kissed almost violently, a clash of lips and teeth and tongues and Emma wondered if she'd ever get enough. Her hands found his belt buckle and the clanking sound of it coming undone sent a further thrill surging though her. She undid the button and the zip, and the heavy belt sent the jeans straight to the floor.

He was erect inside his boxers and, without taking his mouth from hers, she could feel him fumbling around on the table for the condom he'd tossed there. He found it and together they pushed open the slit in his underwear and dressed him. As soon as it was done Emma guided him inside her and their mouths finally broke apart as they each gasped with the pleasure.

It was rough, it was inelegant, it was indecent, and it was the hottest thing Emma had ever done. She was fucking her neighbor's son on the kitchen table. In the middle of the day.

She lifted her legs and crossed her ankles behind his butt, pulling him tighter to her. He groaned and threw his head back.

His hand delved between them and he pressed two fingers between her folds, adding to the friction from their bodies. Emma gasped and cried out and came in a shudder, her breath coming in sobs as the pleasure went on and on.

As the final convulsions of her climax quivered through her, she felt his fingers leave her throbbing mound and both his hands grasped her hips, fingertips digging in tight. He held her in place and pushed into her again and again, his face contorted in pleasure and concentration, a bead of sweat running down from his temple.

He groaned, a loud guttural noise that sounded almost like pain, and she could feel him pulsing inside her. It was almost enough to send her over the edge again.

Emma tightened her thighs around him to pull him closer and he collapsed in to her. She wrapped her arms around his back and leaned into him. They each held the other up, both breathing heavily. Emma could feel him twitching inside her and she wished somehow there was a way for them to stay joined that way forever. Of course that was ridiculous. He was leaving soon.

"What are we doing?" she said under her breath, thinking aloud.

"If you don't know, you've got bigger problems than trying to talk to your son about wet dreams," he said with a ragged laugh.

He pressed a kiss to her ear and straightened up.

"No." Emma tightened her grip, not willing to allow him to pull away.

"I have to," he said, and she knew he was right. Emma released her legs from behind him and ran her hands around to his chest, fisting them in his t-shirt for a moment before she let him go.

She was practically naked, her only clothing her bra, and even that was pushed aside to reveal her breasts. In contrast he was almost fully clothed, his jeans around his ankles, still wearing a t-shirt and an open button-down. He even had his boxers on, and right now he was shuffling around to the sink to grab a handful of kitchen paper, holding the condom in place with one hand. It was awkward and funny, but Emma didn't feel like laughing.

Once he'd cleaned up and pulled his jeans back on again, he limped back over to her. He grabbed her panties and pulled them over her feet, hitching them up to her thighs before grabbing her jeans and pushing her legs through each hole and then nudging her to stand up. Emma let him dress her, allowing him to move her, following his instructions as he pushed and pulled and prodded to get her fully dressed again. He gently rearranged her bra, settling her breasts back into their lacy restraints, and finished by pulling her tunic top over her head.

"There you are," he said. He ran his fingers through her hair, spiking it up on the short side and pushing it back over her shoulder on the long side. He stepped back and gave an approving smile, as if pleased with his work.

"So I'm all fixed up now?" she asked. "Cameron won't notice anything?"

He wrinkled his nose. "You might want some concealer for your chin. Sorry." He rubbed his beard. "But otherwise fine."

Emma gave him what she knew would be a funny, sad smile. And then she donned her rubber gloves again and began to wipe the table.

-

* * *

-

House wanted to take a nap, but he couldn't quite bring himself to leave Emma cleaning the kitchen and go lie down in his mother's spare room. Besides, he really wanted to sleep in Emma's bed, not the hard and tiny twin bed at his mother's place. It went without saying that he could never sleep in the bed his mother had shared with John House. Instead, he offered to go look after Cameron, not that the kid needed any kind of looking after. He figured he might just make some kind of excuse and find a way to sneak into the bedroom.

When he proposed that idea Emma just nodded and went back to work cleaning the table. She was scrubbing it particularly vigorously. He guessed that was probably a good idea if his mother was ever going to eat breakfast off it again.

House woke up several hours later on the sofa in Emma's living room. He guessed by the light coming in it was late afternoon. Cameron was still playing video games, but the sound level had come down considerably from where it had been when he'd first walked in – Emma must have told him to turn it down when she'd found House asleep.

He watched the TV screen out of one eye and then blinked blearily. The kid was up to a stage in the game House hadn't even known existed.

House sat up and stretched, groaning as his muscles protested. That pretty much happened every time he woke up, but the standing-up sex had added a new layer to his usual soreness. Not that he was complaining.

"Hey Greg, you snore," Cameron said without taking his eyes from the TV.

"And you smell," House retorted.

Cameron ignored him. "Check this out." He gave House a quick, wide-eyed glance. "Top score, it's a PB."

"Very impressive," House admitted grudgingly as he took in the score and kill-count. He was really glad he'd retired from the two-player match as early as he had. He would have been disgraced. "Where's your Mom?"

"In her office."

House grunted a response and, once he'd found his cane down the side of the sofa, managed to hoist himself up and stagger out to the office. He found Emma sitting at her desk, staring with intense concentration at a photograph on her computer screen. He watched as she manipulated it, cropping off the edges and somehow playing with the colors.

"Hey," he said. He tried to be quiet, but his voice was rusty from sleeping and it came out a little rough.

Emma started and spun around. "Oh!"

Was it his imagination or did she look somehow disappointed to see him?

"It's you," she said.

"You were maybe expecting George Clooney?"

"No. He comes on Tuesdays."

House managed a gruff laugh. Emma quirked up her mouth into not quite a smile. Yeah, something was definitely weird.

"You should go see your mother," Emma said. "If you go now, you can be there for an hour or so and then come back for dinner."

House didn't feel like going to the hospital in the slightest, but he knew he should.

He was prevented from answering when Cameron sauntered up and started wandering around the office, fiddling with things.

"What happened to the game?" House asked.

Cameron muttered under his breath. "I bombed out."

"Ah."

The kid sauntered over to his mother and sat on her desk in a way that House would have found extremely annoying had he been Emma. "Mom, I feel sick again." He gave a couple of pathetic coughs.

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure this isn't just to get out of school tomorrow?"

"No, honest, I'm feeling sick. I think my chest is getting tight again. My asthma feels bad."

Emma gave House a worried look. "Do you think he's okay?"

It wasn't so much medical skill as lie detection skills that were required, House could see. He gave Cameron a regretful shrug. "Sorry pal. Not even close. I've seen better acting jobs on 90210."

"Aww." Cameron flung his hands out in a gesture of defeat. He didn't even try to keep up the pretense and looked royally pissed off. "When are you going home?" he asked, sneering at House.

House was surprised, he thought the kid liked him.

"Cameron, don't be rude," Emma chided.

"Just a couple more days and I'll be out of your hair, kid." House could feel Emma's eyes on him.

"Good." Cameron pushed away from the table and stormed off, the slam of the back door coming shortly after.

Emma sighed. "He's going to miss you."

"Huh?"

"Go visit your mother. I'll cook you something for dinner for when you get back." With that she dismissed him by spinning in her chair and going back to work on the photo on her screen.

House felt crappy. Again.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** This is the second last chapter! Thank you all for your lovely response to the story, I'm so glad you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

I began writing this story before "Private Lives", so some of the stuff about House's biological father might not necessarily match with canon now.

-

* * *

"Mom, I wanted to ask you about something." House had got to the hospital and found his mother far clearer and more alert than she' d been earlier. The nurse had been right – the trauma and tiredness had exacerbated her decline. An afternoon of sleep had made a huge difference.

The tone in his voice must have given something away, because his mother looked wary. "What is it?"

House took a deep breath. He was going to do it. Ask the question he'd been wanting to ask for almost forty years. "I want to know about Tommy."

His mother's face paled. "You know about Tommy?"

That annoyed him. "Of course I know about Tommy," he said, exasperated. "I've known since I was twelve."

"What? How?"

House waved a hand. "I just did. And I talked to Dad about it."

"He never said anything to me."

House barked a bitter laugh. "He didn't say anything to me for a long time afterward either."

"Greg, I . . ." His mother looked extremely uncomfortable and normally House would have backed off, but he knew that this might be one of his last chances to find out what really happened before the memories were irretrievable.

"I just want to know, Mom. Don't you think I have a right?"

Blythe closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, she gave him a sad smile. "I know these days you'd probably tell a child about this kind of thing when they are younger. But it was different back then."

"So tell me now."

His mother's piercing blue gaze was bright and searching this evening, House thought. He had to steel himself not to look away – this look of his mother's was one he usually tried to avoid. Right now no one looking on would suspect she was losing her mind.

"I suppose . . ." Blythe looked away and when she looked back her expression was resigned. "I might not remember later . . . that's right, isn't it?"

House nodded. "That's right."

"I'm going senile. Is it Alzheimer's?" She sounded calm. Reconciled to the diagnosis.

"Probably," House said with a brisk nod.

Blythe let out a long breath. "Well I guess I should tell you. You need to know about your family. Soon you'll be the only one left."

House knew his mother didn't mean it as an insult or an attack, but he couldn't help feeling wounded. Who's fault was it that he would be alone? He'd never managed to forge any lasting relationships. He had Wilson, a best friend, who would eventually marry again, have a family probably, and fit House in around the edges. But House would continue to be alone, watching from the sidelines. How much did his own family, his mother and father – _fathers_ – have to do with that?

Blythe closed her eyes again and for a moment House thought she'd fallen asleep. But then she began to speak.

"I was so young. I was training to be a dental nurse, out in the big wide world, sharing a small apartment with your Aunt Sarah."

House didn't know his mother had trained to be a dental nurse. He looked at the woman lying in the hospital bed and for the first time in his fifty-year life he began to see her as a person, a woman, someone who'd had hopes and dreams and expectations of life. A whole person who existed outside of her role of bringing him into the world and raising him.

"You were a dental nurse?" he asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.

Her eyes flicked open. She looked sad. "No, I never finished my training. I . . . got married so I gave it up. Back then, that's what you did."

House nodded.

"There were these two young boys I would go out with, Tommy and John. They were both in the marines, young and handsome and charming. Sarah and I would double date them and we used to have such a lovely time."

Made sense, House thought. He'd first picked Thomas as his biological father because he appeared in many photos with both his parents.

A cloud passed over Blythe's face. "Then John and I started getting a little more serious. He asked me to marry him, and I said yes, because what girl would say no? We were going to have a long engagement, but then he got notified he had to go to Japan, so we brought the wedding forward. He left two months after we were married."

"But what about Tommy?"

His mother gave him a tight smile. "Tommy was John's best friend, but John didn't ask him to be his best man. I found out they'd had a fight, over me. Tommy had been furious that John asked me to marry him." She shook her head. "Stupid, proud girl that I was, I was so flattered. Who could believe that two handsome young men would both want me? I was this shy, flat-chested naïve little thing from Ohio."

"So what happened while Dad, I mean, John, was away?"

"Tommy would come around and help out. It was all very innocent at first, at least on my behalf. I was a brand new housewife, John and I had moved into a house on the base and I had no idea what to do with myself. The other wives were nice, I guess, but it was hard to make friends at first because they all already knew each other."

House nodded, he knew exactly what it was like to try to break into established friendship networks on a new base.

"I was in love with John, I think, but Tommy's attention was so helpful and he was . . . _there._ He was there when I was feeling lost and lonely and out of my depth. John was the loud one, the funny one at parties, the one all the other girls fell over. Tommy was quieter, more serious, less easy to get to know." She sighed. "He was kinder. Gentler," she added in an undertone.

"And you got to know him."

She nodded. "One thing led to another." She waved her hand and House was glad she spared him the details. "By the time John came back I was already pregnant. I told him you were his, from before he'd left for Japan. I knew he didn't believe me, he was a smart man, but we never said anything more about it. From then on, as far as anyone was concerned, you were John's son."

"But Tommy knew?"

"He suspected. I never confirmed it in so many words, but when you were a baby he would come around sometimes when John was out, wanting to see you. And . . . I let him."

"You . . ." House didn't know whether he was outraged or disappointed or just plain bewildered. At the same time the emotions didn't have the punch that he thought they might, because it had all happened such a long time ago and he'd known about for so long. It was just like John's funeral and the paternity test that had confirmed his suspicions, House reflected. It didn't really _change_ anything.

"Tom dated your Aunt Sarah for a while and while you were growing up, he was around. But then you were older and so the next time John was re-stationed we moved with him and Tommy couldn't visit anymore. From then on we only ever saw him occasionally, when he and John ended up stationed in the same place. They were always civil to each other, but never the friends they'd been before. I haven't seen him for a long time."

"Except he was at Dad's funeral last year."

"Was he?"

House nodded. "Yes, he was sitting up the back."

His mother looked surprised and hurt. "He didn't talk to me. I didn't even see him."

"Maybe he didn't want to bring back old memories."

"Yes." She nodded. "He would have been respectful of John. Despite what happened, he was always respectful of John." His mother had begun to slump in the bed and House could see her tiredness settling over her.

"I wish you'd told me," House said.

Blythe opened her eyes and pinned him again with that intense stare. "I'm sorry. About a lot of things."

House gave a brief nod.

They sat silently for a while and House thought his mother had begun to drift off to sleep again.

"Mom? I'm going to go and let you sleep," he whispered.

She didn't answer, so House stood up and gathered his cane. He'd only taken a couple of steps when his mother's whispering voice reached him.

"I never stopped loving you, Tommy."

-

* * *

-

By the time Emma had cooked Cameron dinner, fought with him about his bed time and had to quash yet another attempt by him to get out of going to school the next day, she was exhausted. She sat down in front of the TV with a glass of the wine left over from the barbecue and put on the day's episode of Prescription Passion that she'd Tivoed. She knew she'd regret watching it when Saturday rolled around, but she really needed the distraction.

She watched all the way through and then turned back to regular TV, allowing herself a grim smile when she discovered a hospital reality drama was on. For the hell of it she left it on, watching as doctors and nurses scurried around and fake blood spurted copiously. She heard the TV doctor yell for an "intubation tray" and recognized some of the jargon she'd heard Greg use the day before.

Two plates of dinner were sitting the fridge.

She kept watching TV.

A police drama began. Then a stupid sitcom.

Emma realized she no longer had any appetite.

At eleven o'clock she accepted that he wasn't coming over.

She turned off the TV and crawled into bed, wishing she'd thought to change the sheets.

-

* * *

-

For House, the next day passed in a blur. After a terrible night's sleep in the hard and cold twin bed, head swirling with his mother's revelations, House woke full of purpose. He had to get this over and done with and get the hell out. His bed, his office, his motorcycle, his _life_ were calling to him like sirens.

Nothing had changed. Nothing about what he'd discovered about his father meant anything. He was sad that his mother was going to die a slow and horrible death, but there was nothing he could do to change that. All he could do was organize what needed to be organized and get back to his life; a life that – since Mayfield – had been starting to look up.

He knew, though, that he'd remember this weekend forever.

House went next door to speak to the military neighbor about care facilities for his mother. The guy had done an excellent job and had a short list for House to follow up with.

He then spent the day driving between the hospital and the shortlisted places, arranging for his mother to be properly assessed by a specialist geriatric neurologist and speaking to the various homes he went to about their care and facilities. His name allowed him to pull strings at the hospital and, interestingly, at one of the military-run homes where – yet again – his father's reputation preceded him.

By the end of the day House had three things in place. The first was a solid diagnosis of Alzheimer's from the hospital neurologist – a fact that was sad, but not unexpected.

He'd secured a place in a military aged care home that would be available in five weeks. It had a staged approach to care – his mother would first live in her own little apartment in the complex, with regular visits and check-ups from nursing staff. Then, as her condition deteriorated, she could move into a room within the main facility for full-time care. He'd discussed it with his mother and while she'd been not exactly thrilled, she'd come to accept the need for change. The idea that the apartment she was moving to had a little garden brightened her up.

Third, through the hospital, House had managed to find an agency nurse cum housekeeper to live with his mother for the next month, until the position in the nursing home became free. For an exorbitant fee, the nurse, with assistance from the neighbor, Captain Benfer, had agreed to help pack up the house and transfer the furniture and personal items she would need to the home when the time came. Everything else would be sold.

House wrote a couple of large checks and pretty much everything was sorted.

Back at his mother's home, he wandered from room to room. He figured anything of value she'd take with her, and he'd work out what kind of family heirlooms he'd need to take care of when it came time for her to move into permanent care. He actually couldn't think of anything he _wanted_ to keep.

Then, for lack of anything better to do, he called and checked in with his team. There was nothing going on, no patient, they were all just doing clinic duty and catching up on charting. Boring. House had chosen a good week to be absent. He called Wilson, but the call went to voicemail.

House checked his watch. It was six pm. With a strange, unsettled feeling in his stomach, he called the airline and organized a flight for mid-afternoon the next day. He figured that by then he'd have made any final arrangements he needed to for his mother and he'd be home in Princeton in time for dinner and a nice long sleep.

That done, House sat at the kitchen table and wondered what to do with himself. A moment later the kitchen door banged open and shut.

"Greg? Mom wants to know if you're coming over for dinner."

House looked up and blinked as Cameron flung himself into the chair opposite.

He'd been not only avoiding seeing Emma all day, but he'd been avoiding thinking about her too. "How was school?" House asked, not because he was interested, but just to stall for time.

"Pretty crap, as usual. Pop quiz in math, but I did okay. Tori said she missed me."

There was a smile playing on the kid's face which clearly meant there was more to the story, but House was almost afraid to ask. "It's good to be missed," he said.

Cameron narrowed his eyes. "Could Blythe have, like, _died_ if I hadn't found her sooner?"

House shrugged a shoulder. "It's possible."

"I thought so. I told my chem teacher what happened and he gave us all a lecture on how dangerous some ordinary chemicals are when you mix them."

House could just about see the kid glowing. He could just imagine how the chem teacher would have made a big deal about the mix-up and how Cameron would have instantly become a hero-that-cheated-death. He would have been the hottest property in school. No wonder Tori was hanging all over him.

"You are a hero," House said, ensuring that his voice held not a scrap of sarcasm.

Cameron enjoyed his heroic status for a moment longer. Then he looked around the kitchen and his shoulders slumped. "Is Blythe coming back here to live?"

"For a few weeks. Then she's going into a retirement home."

"So someone can look out for her."

"Yep."

Cameron screwed his face up. "Blythe was pretty cool. She used to bake these cookies with M&Ms in them after school. And sometimes when Mom was doing her Saturday Shame she'd make me hashbrowns. She would put mayo on them and at first I hated it, but then I really liked it."

House felt a pain somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

"And she would talk to me about the marines," Cameron continued blithely. "For a girl, she knew a lot about it. She didn't mind if I asked dumb questions. We had one of those recruiter guys come to school last year, but he wasn't interested in talking to me because I was too young. But Blythe told me all this stuff and now I know more about it than anyone who spoke to him."

"Yeah, Mom was always a pretty smart cookie," House said. He felt a tremble inside.

"I hope I'm as old as you when my Mom dies," Cameron said, in that blunt way of childhood. Then the nascent-adult in him recognized the misstep. "Sorry. I mean, she's not dead, you know. Just, kind of, losing her marbles. You know what I mean."

House shook his head, but he couldn't feel angry with the kid. "Let me tell you, buddy, it doesn't matter how old you are. Your Mom is still your Mom."

"Yeah, I guess. But it must be good when they can stop telling you what to do."

House could tell that the kid could barely comprehend of being such an age as House. Or that there would _never_ come a time when his mother would stop telling him what to do. House decided to leave that one for the kid to work out for himself.

"Hey, Cameron?" House asked suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"You remember that conversation we had about you and Tori having sex?"

Cameron looked uncomfortable. "Yeah?"

"Don't rush into it. There's no hurry. Do it when you're ready and not before. It means a lot, your first time. You'll remember it forever. You want to make it something worth remembering. Okay?"

Clearly Cameron was unsettled by the direction the conversation was taking. "Okay, sure," he shrugged. "You are gonna send me those links, though, right? I told Frankie what you said, and he wants to see them too."

House made a mental note to set up an anonymous Gmail account to email Cameron. He wasn't necessarily sure it was a great idea for an official email from Dr Gregory House at PPTH with sex advice for first-timers to go circulating around the entire teenage population of Norfolk. Then again, it'd be just the kind of thing that'd really piss off Cuddy. "Yeah, I'll email you."

"Cool." Cameron staggered to his feet clumsily, looking like a baby giraffe, all legs. House thought he might have grown a couple of inches overnight. "You wanna come for dinner?"

"What's cooking?" House asked.

"One of Mom's fancy pasta things. And this amazing dessert that my Grandma used to make called _tia mousse_ or something. She's been cooking all day. She does that when she gets sad."

"Really?" House sighed. A delicious home-cooked meal sounded wonderful, but Emma was sad. House wasn't sure if he could deal with that on top of everything else.

"When are you leaving?" Cameron asked.

"Tomorrow."

"Oh."

This time House could see in the kid's face what Emma had said earlier. The kid would miss him. That was . . . kinda _nice_.

"I've been practicing Baker Street," Cameron said. "You should come and listen."

House took in a deep breath and then sighed heavily. He groaned a little as he got to his feet, muscles protesting. He was getting old. "Lead the way, kid."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Thank you everyone for your kind reviews for this story. I'm really glad you've enjoyed it. If you'd like to know more about it, please visit my blog (link on my profile page) for my 'behind the scenes' post on my writing experiences with this story.

-

* * *

Emma spent the morning working and the afternoon cooking.

From a work perspective, it had been an extraordinarily productive day. Partly because she wasn't stopping to keep checking in on Blythe or having the woman appear and interrupt her day. Partly because she was making herself focus incredibly hard, so as not to think about anything else.

By lunchtime she'd almost made up for the lost day on the annual report and she knew she'd done good work.

The kitchen called to her.

She'd made a trip to the grocery store and her favorite little Italian baker who also sold all kinds of delicious Italian delicacies. And now a big pot was bubbling away with a rich and flavorsome duck ragu, while in the refrigerator a decadently rich _tiramisu_ was setting. Fresh pasta – _pappardelle_ – was waiting to be thrown into another pot of boiling salted water.

Emma was waiting to find out if she had a dinner guest so she'd know how much pasta to cook.

She saw movement in the yard and Cameron emerged through the gap in the fence. A moment later Greg appeared, wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt that seemed to have an ornate skull pattern on it. If not for the cane and the lined face, he could have been Cameron's brother, or one of his friends. The idea made Emma feel old, but she tried to push the feeling away.

"Not black or red," Greg said with a single raised eyebrow when he entered the kitchen.

Emma frowned and he gave an exaggerated look to her clothing. She was wearing a peacock blue shirt and tan chinos, she'd swapped her red glasses for her shimmery green ones. She shrugged. "No."

"Smells fantastic." He walked into the kitchen and began taking the lids off her pots, sticking in his nose and checking everything out. When he got to the ragu he picked up a wooden spoon and stuck it in to take a taste. "Tastes fantastic too." He gave her a smile. "What's the herb? Tarragon?"

Out of nowhere, Emma felt things click into place. The confusion and wariness she'd been fighting all day faded. She knew where she stood. And she was okay with it.

She smiled back. "Yes, tarragon and some oregano."

"And lots of garlic."

"_Lots_ of garlic," she agreed.

"Excellent."

"Greg?" Cameron interrupted. "Come and listen to me play."

"Why don't you bring your sax out here and play for both of us?" Emma suggested.

Cameron didn't bother to hide his irritation. "No. I just want Greg to hear."

Emma tried her best not to take it personally. Cameron just had a thing for Greg and wanted him to himself for a moment. Emma could hardly blame him. "Fine. Off you go."

Greg gave her a funny look, but he obediently followed Cameron to his room. A moment later Emma could hear the thing Cameron had been practicing for the past couple of days blaring out. It actually wasn't too bad. Emma had a strange feeling she recognized the song, had heard it on the radio or something.

She busied herself with setting the table and then put the pasta on, knowing it would only take minutes to cook. Once it was _al dente_ she drained it and called out to the boys. It had been quiet in there for a while and Emma wondered what was going on.

Greg didn't look at her when they emerged, but Cameron came over and gave her a quick, unexpected hug.

"What was that for?" Emma asked, surprised.

"I'll play it for you when I've got it really good," Cameron said.

"Ah." Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw the two males exchange glances. "That'd be lovely," she said.

They ate quickly, mostly because it just tasted so damn good, and even Cameron complimented her on the meal. She hoped that behavior might last beyond Greg House's visit, but she doubted it. The _tiramisu_ wasn't quite perfect – it needed more time for the cream and alcohol to soak into the cake, but it was still pretty good. Both guys had seconds and Emma realized there wouldn't be a huge amount leftover to see how it developed.

"I've got homework to do," Cameron announced, throwing his spoon into his empty bowl with a clang and pulling back from the table.

"You told me you didn't have any when you came home," Emma said, cross. "I specifically asked you."

"I forgot," Cameron said, with a shifty glance to Greg.

Something was going on, Emma knew, but she wasn't sure what.

"Go do your homework kid, I'll help your Mom with the dishes," Greg said.

"Okay." Cameron disappeared like a shot.

Once the bedroom door was closed, Emma leaned forward. "What was that about?"

"I just got us an evening together, uninterrupted. He's only going to leave his bedroom to go to the bathroom. And even then, only if it's desperate. I tried to get him to agree to peeing in a bottle, but he refused."

"What? Why?" And then she blushed as the answer to that became obvious to her. Then another question occurred to her. "How?"

"Drugs. I've agreed to supply him with hospital-grade pseudoephedrine for his meth lab."

Emma narrowed her eyes. "I'm a Mom. I can get the truth out of you, you know."

He had the grace to look a little scared. "I know. But do you really want to?"

He had her there. Emma sat back in her chair. "How did things go today? How's Blythe?" They hadn't got to that conversation yet.

Greg told her about the home he'd found and the diagnosis from the hospital's neurologist. It seemed like he'd made impressive progress with the arrangements he'd made and it sounded like Blythe was going to be well cared for. Emma was relieved, even though she knew she'd miss the woman too. She silently vowed that she and Cameron would be regular visitors to Blythe's new home.

"You've done a great job," Emma said, sincerely praising him. "I'm really pleased that you managed to get everything sorted out. And it sounds like it's a solution that your Mom is happy with."

"She's not that happy. But she's as happy as she can be."

"So . . ." Emma looked down and played with the spoon in her empty bowl. "So, when are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

She nodded. "You have to get back to work."

"Yes."

She looked up and met his eyes. They were so blue. And sad, like she knew hers would be. "Did you really make a deal with my son to stay in his room so we could have sex?" she asked, changing the subject.

"W-e-e-lll," Greg hesitated. "Something like that."

"I can't believe you did that."

"Hey, even if you only give me a blow job, at twenty bucks, it'll still be a bargain."

Emma's mouth dropped open in surprise, but she closed it fast, not wanting to let him know he'd shocked her. "Who said you were getting a blow job?" She lowered her voice for the last two words, even though she knew rationally Cameron couldn't hear.

"It's a serving suggestion," he said, his eyes glinting mischievously. "I could dip Little Greg in the tiramisu if you like."

Emma put on an expression of mock outrage. "You'll do no such thing!"

"What, not even a dollop of mascarpone? It's what all the gourmet hookers are demanding these days. Canned whipped cream is _so_ pedestrian."

It was almost funny. "When's your flight home?" Emma asked.

His smile dropped. "Three-thirty tomorrow."

She swallowed hard. "Need a lift?"

"Yeah, that'd be good. It's cheaper if I drop off the hire car in town."

Emma nodded. She'd say goodbye to him tomorrow. She would be sad, but she wouldn't be regretful. Having a man around had been nice – different, and complicated, and occasionally upsetting, but agreeable.

It felt like she'd blinked and Cameron had gone from a baby to a teen. Another blink and he'd be off to college and Emma would be alone. She'd be a woman that sat in front of the TV and watched soap operas on TV and drank a full bottle of wine by herself without noticing. She couldn't help feeling that Greg House had come into her life for a reason. This weekend might just mark a turning point in her life. She knew she'd always remember it, in more ways than one.

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "I might come to visit my mother more regularly," he suggested.

She gave him a gentle smile. "But you won't."

His lips compressed into a thin line. "No. Probably not."

"I'll visit her," Emma said.

"I know you will." He squeezed her hand.

"You know . . ." She paused. "Thanks for organizing things with Cam, but I don't think tonight's going to work. I couldn't do it with him in the house." Something she'd have to figure out at some point, she realized.

He didn't look surprised. "I thought you might say something like that. I tried to bribe him to spend the night at a friend's place, but he told me you had some kind of iron-clad rule about sleepovers on school nights."

Emma smiled ruefully. "I do. Oh well."

"I don't suppose . . ."

"What?"

"Could I sleep here anyway? The bed at Mom's is terrible."

Emma thought that over. It still wasn't setting a great example for Cameron, but it wasn't like he didn't know what was going on – Greg had made sure of that. She shrugged. "Yeah, okay."

Together, they cleaned up the dinner dishes and then they turned off the lights, locked the doors and headed for the bedroom. It almost made Emma wish she hadn't agreed to him sleeping over – doing those little routine tasks together reminded her even more forcefully of what she'd been missing, of what a luxury it was to have someone to help out, of not having to take care of everything by herself.

It was time for things to change.

-

* * *

-

The next morning House went over to his Mom's place to shower and pack his bag. He hadn't woken up until after Cameron had left for school and by then Emma was already dressed and breakfasted. Sleeping all night in bed with her had been restful and calming. As he stood in the shower, water running over his head, he thought about what it had been like to go to sleep with a warm, soft body beside him. He decided that it was time for him to get serious about finding a relationship. The playing around, pretending – the games with Wilson – it was time to stop and get serious. His mother's decline, his time with Emma, even the connection he'd made with Cameron, it had all been part of a weekend of learning. Lessons he hadn't even realized he needed to know.

He'd identified to Nolan that he didn't want to be miserable. Now he'd had a new realization. He didn't want to be alone.

After making plans with Emma for taking care of the rental car and getting out to the airport, House headed to the hospital to say goodbye to his Mom. As he walked up to her bedside he noticed that she seemed alert and bright. And happy to see him.

"Greg!"

"Hi Mom."

"What are you doing here?"

House revised his initial impression of his mother's alertness. "I'm visiting, Mom, remember?"

His mother's eyes sparkled. "Got you."

House rolled his eyes, but chuckled at the same time. "Dementia jokes? Ten points." He remembered that his mother often had a dark side to her humor. He imagined it could only have helped to get through married life with his father.

"If you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?"

Wisely, House didn't answer.

"The nurse says I'll be discharged tomorrow," she said.

House nodded. He'd caught an update on the way in. "That's good. The agency nurse will take you home and stay with you."

His mother's expression faltered.

"You remember what we talked about yesterday, don't you?" he said.

"Yes, I do. I'm moving to a home. And . . ." She sighed. "I understand why. It doesn't mean I have to like it."

House thinned his lips. "No, it doesn't."

"Still, who knows, by the time it happens, I'll have probably forgotten anyway." She gave a snort of laughter.

"More dementia humor, Mom? Maybe you can turn it into an act at the home?"

"Maybe." Her cheer slipped. "When are you leaving?"

"This afternoon."

She smiled her fake smile. "Of course. You're busy. You have to get back to the hospital."

"That's right."

"Gregory?"

House sucked in a breath. His Mom usually only used his full name if he was in trouble. Or she was going to say something very serious. "Yes Mom?"

"Are you planning to see Tom?"

House was surprised. And then amazed, because he hadn't even given that idea a moment's thought. Did he want to see his biological father? Talk to him?

His mother was still waiting for an answer. "I don't know," he said eventually.

She nodded and seemed content to leave it at that.

The two of them sat in silence for a while.

"Gregory?" Blythe said with that serious tone again.

"Mom?"

She fixed him with her bright blue stare. "More than anything in this world, I want you to find happiness. I know that you won't go in for any kind of deathbed vows, but I want you to promise me that you won't make the same mistake I did."

_Mistake?_ House warred internally with the need to know and the strong desire not to. But of course, he was _House. _The question couldn't go unasked. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be afraid."

His mother held his gaze until House couldn't bear it any longer and he tore his eyes away, looking down, tracing the cane from where his hands rested on top all the way to the floor. He sucked in a breath and let it out in a rush. "I'll try," he said in a small voice, not glancing up, already breaking his mother's request, already scared.

"You deserve to be happy, my lovely son." Her voice broke and she reached over and put a hand over where his rested. "My wonderful, clever, beautiful son."

House couldn't look up. Couldn't let her see the tears that burned. Keeping his head down he nodded.

The clattering sound of a trolley broke the moment and a maintenance man walked past whistling to himself. He pulled out a ladder just a little way from the end of Blythe's bed and began the work of replacing one of the florescent tubes in the ceiling above.

House watched each movement the guy made, focusing on the ordinariness of the job, on the day-to-day dreariness that made up most of a person's life. Stuff like replacing light bulbs. Like cleaning. And cooking. And the job of caring for others, like his mother. Like Emma.

"I have to go, Mom," he said eventually, feeling composed enough to return his glance to her face. I have to get the car back, and get to the airport."

His mother's expression settled into that mask that she did so well; the one that told most of the world that everything was perfectly fine. Only those who knew her well – her husband, her son, her lover – would have known different.

"Of course you do. Say hello to James from me, won't you? Such a nice man. And . . ." She faltered, looking a little less confident. ". . . Maybe you could give me a call next week sometime? If you're not too busy."

House winced at the fact that his mother felt she didn't have a right to expect him to care about her. To call her. "I will Mom," he said. He'd been honest with Emma, he probably wouldn't visit. But he _could_ call. That he could do. "I'll call you."

He stood up and bent over and gave his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek. As he straightened up, she put a hand to his face, holding him there for a moment. "I love you Gregory," she said her voice firm. "I always have and I always will. Wherever I am and whatever happens to me, I want you to know that."

He looked into his mother's face, knowing it might well be the last time he saw her. That, even if he did see her again, _she_ might not be in there anymore. Summoning up every ounce of courage he had, he gave her a tight smile. "I love you too, Mom," he said, his voice sounding fragile and rusty to his own ears. He'd had to search down within himself to find those words. But they were there.

-

* * *

-

House had arranged with Emma to met him at the car rental place. He handed in the keys, paid the bill and walked outside to find her sitting in her car, waiting for him. It hadn't really been necessary – he could just have easily dropped the car off at the airport. But seeing her there, waiting for him, helping him out with this one last task, brought a warm glow that he couldn't have denied himself.

He still didn't really understand why she cared enough to help out. Of course, she barely knew him – and perhaps that was why she did care – but House wasn't going to let his usual self-doubt ruin this; not this time. Not when they only had a few minutes left together. There would be plenty of time in the coming days to struggle with rationalizing her bizarre, altruistic behavior.

Strangely, during the ride to the airport, they were mostly quiet. House couldn't think what to say, so instead he studied her. She was back in her usual black and red colors today. Her red-and-white striped leggings reminded him of The Cat In The Hat, and her black dress was another shapeless tunic-style thing. Red glasses topped off the outfit. He thought it was a pity that she didn't dress to reveal her figure, but then he revised that idea. There was something primal and erotic about the fact that he knew what was under there, but she was hiding it from everyone else.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer," Emma said eventually, one side of her mouth quirking up.

"You'll just have to paint one for me," House rejoined.

She gave a little laugh and then fell silent again.

Eventually they pulled up at the departures zone and House wanted to have time go backwards, to have the trip over again so that this time he could say things, talk to her, tell her what—

Tell her _what?_

She put the car into park and pulled on the handbrake, but didn't turn off the ignition. Then she turned to him.

House still had no idea what to say.

"Thank you."

Her voice was quiet, but he could hear the raw honesty in it. And it baffled the hell out of him."I don't get why you're thanking me. You do realize who owes who the debt here, don't you? And not just for a ride to the airport."

Emma smiled an infuriatingly mysterious smile. "I think we're about even."

"Huh? What on earth did I give you? Apart from two astoundingly fantastic orgasms, I mean?" He added in the quip to cover the fact that he was, actually, confused.

"Oh, the orgasms, sure." She sounded bored. "Three, actually, if you're counting. They were . . . fine." She tried to keep a straight face but then grinned at her own tease.

House shook his head. He changed the subject. "I didn't say goodbye to Cameron."

"He stuck his head in the bedroom before he left for school. He said goodbye and you snored at him. That seemed to be sufficient in his book."

"Good to know." House shrugged.

"I said he's going to send you a recording of that song when he has it perfected."

He gave a small snort. "I can hardly wait."

"He also said not to forget to send him an email. He said you'd know what that meant."

House nodded.

"What does it mean?" Emma asked.

"Uh, guy stuff."

"Right." She looked tempted to quiz further, but then decided to give up. Her glance darted away and she peered out of the windscreen into the distance. "You should get moving, wouldn't want to miss your flight."

"No, no I wouldn't." He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. "Emma?"

She turned back to face him, her eyes bright with tears.

"Aw." His shoulder slumped. He didn't want her to cry.

"Ignore this," she gave a weak smile and waved at her face. "Allergies."

He hesitated for a moment, scared away by her emotion, guilty that he was the cause of it. One hand reached for the door handle, but then something inside him quelled the impulse to flee.

Instead he leaned forward and put his hand to her cheek, holding her in place while he took her mouth with his in a soft, gentle kiss. Emma's hand wound around the back of his neck, playing with his hair, and her lips parted against his, her breath sighing out to mingle with his own. House closed his eyes and blanked his mind; there was nothing to think about except her mouth, her lips. Her slightly tart, yet sweet taste. Her clean citrusy smell that mingled with some other kind of scent that he could only describe as _warm_. The soft skin of her cheek under his palm; the silkiness of her hair against his fingers.

It was an erotic kiss, but it was tinged with too many emotions to be arousing.

Emma sighed and her body leaned further into his, as if magnetically drawn there.

"Hey!"

They were both startled by a loud rap on the window.

"You can't park here! Move along!" A sneering, bad tempered parking attendant glared at them, clearly in no way moved by their display of affection.

Emma put up a hand in recognition of the woman's scolding and pulled away from House. She gave a small, embarrassed chuckle. "Seems like our fate is to always be interrupted."

"Not _always_," House pointed out.

"No, not always." She gave him a sad smile. "Safe travels," she said.

He gave a small, quick nod.

Without another word, he clamored out of the front seat, opened the back door and pulled out his duffle bag. He threw it to the curb with a soft thud. After closing the back door, he put one hand on the roof of the car and leaned down to give Emma one last, longing look.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Welcome," she replied.

They both smiled and then House stepped back, closed the door, picked up his bag, and headed inside the terminal. He wanted to look back, but he didn't.

The queue was blissfully short and within a minute or two, he was at the counter, his bag on the scale.

"Where are you headed today, sir?" the attendant asked with a bland smile.

House took a deep breath and then realized the answer was very simple. "I'm going home."

.

.

The End


End file.
